To the Power of Two
by Padria95
Summary: Two seconds is all it takes for their world to erupt in chaos. Four steps carry them to temporary safety. Sixteen inches of concrete are all that separate them from certain death. People scream, a sniper waits to pick them off, and oh, right. He's already been hit. Which means he's pretty sure he has less than two-hundred-fifty-six minutes left to live. Sequel to Timing.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.** Sequel to _Timing._ Long author's note/explanation is located at the end of the chapter, as it is very slightly spoilery. Takes place three years after the events of _Timing._

Disclaimer: I do not own Flashpoint (sigh), but I do own Libby. She's mine!

 **10/6/17 WARNING!** the events of this story hold similarities to the Las Vegas shooting. The similarity between this story and real-world events is purely coincidental and not intentional. I've had the plot written out for a while. I do not wish to cause anyone distress or pain, so please take heed of this warning going in and do not read if you feel you will be triggered by descriptions of sniper-like gun violence and targeting in a populated area.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Sam's body protested as he slowly made his way out of SRU headquarters. He didn't bother trying to keep his feet from dragging or his shoulders from slumping. Normally he wouldn't be caught dead letting any form of exhaustion or pain show, but he knew nobody would be watching him. Not after the day Team One had just had. No, he was pretty sure all of his teammates were in the Barn somewhere ranting to each other about him.

Several years ago, when Sam was a new member to the team, that was a common occurrence and he'd resigned himself to it after the first few months. He hadn't liked it—hell no—but he'd given up hope that the team would ever accept him and try to understand him, or even try mentoring him. As loathed as he'd been to admit it, he'd recognized that his military approach wasn't necessarily the best fit for every situation in the SRU, but beyond chewing him out for his action oriented tactics, no one on the team had ever really tried to teach him alternatives. Instead, he'd done his best to adapt on his own, learning as much as he could just from watching the others work and weathering the storm of their anger by keeping his tongue in check and his head down. It had been a sink or swim situation and Sam was not the kind of person who allowed personal failure; he swam.

But fortunately, all of that had gradually started to change as Sam did his best to fit in, and finally at some point it felt like they'd clicked as a team. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when that was, but knew that it had happened. The frequency of tongue lashings gradually decreased, while words of appreciation and encouragement slowly began to filter into Team One's exchanges with Sam. Even without understanding what had made it happen, he welcomed the change. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure how much longer he would have lasted if Team One had continued to tear him down and keep him at arm's length. But with the more welcoming attitudes, he finally felt like he belonged and didn't think that his teammates were just tolerating him or putting on a façade. The incident at The Oakes had only served to further prove to himself that he was a valuable member of Team One and that his friends knew that, too. Additionally, it clarified to him that his teammates were not just co-workers, but friends who stood by him. It had been years since they'd all sided against him and judged his actions without giving him a chance to defend them.

Too bad all it took was one hot call gone terribly, terribly wrong and they slipped right back into old habits…

Sam couldn't suppress a hiss of pain as his foot landed awkwardly on an uneven bit of pavement, sending fire shooting up his bruised leg. S _hould've stayed put, Braddock! Bones don't really like slamming against buildings,_ scolded the very small part of his brain that was concerned about his own self-preservation. _Yeah, but bodies like bullets even less,_ responded the overwhelming majority of his brain—which did not regret his actions given that they'd saved lives. Still, he really wasn't looking forward to the bike ride home, though he _was_ looking forward to the next few days off; Team One's rotation had just finished and they had three days off duty, which gave Sam three days to let his body heal and avoid any sort of contact with his teammates in the hopes that they'd cool off by the time they all returned to work. Maybe by then, this whole nightmare of a day would be a forgotten memory… _Ha. Not a chance._

He wrapped his arm a little tighter around his midsection in an effort to stabilize his protesting ribs while he stuck his other hand into his pocket to fish out his keys in order to unlock his bike. Looking down as he was and too wrapped up in his own misery, he failed to notice the figure standing off to the side, watching him with arms folded and narrowed eyes.

The figure had been observing him from the moment he set foot outside of the building. Analyzing and assessing his physical and mental state through his uncharacteristically open body language and actions. Probing for weaknesses, the figure found many exposed and anticipated that they would be easily exploitable. The figure frowned, knowing that this was incredibly abnormal for the SRU officer.

Sam was almost to his bike before the figure stepped out of the shadow of the building behind him and shouted, "Hey!"

He froze, unable to believe his ears. _Braddock, I think you hit your head a little harder than you thought when you collided with that wall._ Turning slowly, his eyes landed on the person who'd caught his attention. Her arms were crossed and she was frowning. She was older than he remembered, taller and ganglier, and it took him a moment to reconcile her more mature face with the voice he'd heard. But then she broke into an unmistakable smile. "Libby," he breathed in astonishment.

She laughed and ran towards him, arms open, but stopped just short, the frown returning to her face as she recalled the way he'd limped out of headquarters without even noticing her. No matter how much she'd missed him and wanted to give him a hug, she didn't want to hurt him.

Sam solved her quandary for her, however, by reaching forward and wrapping his arms around her. She came up to just below his chin, now, but he lifted her off of her feet and hugged her tight, oblivious to any pain he'd felt moments before.

When their embrace ended and he set her back on the ground, he had difficulty stringing an intelligible sentence together. "What are you—how—where…" he finally went with, "are you okay?"

Her eyes softened as she looked up at him. "Oh Sam, still looking out for me, huh?" She shook her head. "You've got to stop doing that. In fact, it looks like you need to start looking after yourself more!" she scolded.

Sam flushed and stood a little straighter, berating himself for dropping his guard and not noticing her the moment he stepped out of the doors—she hadn't really been hiding, he realized belatedly.

She noticed his negative reaction to her calling out his obvious injuries, so she briefly diverted the conversation in the hopes of softening him up a little bit before grilling him. "To answer what I think your four question were—if I interpreted them correctly—one," she held up a finger like she was counting off a list, "I am here because I am finally out of the witness protection program. Two," she paused, pursed her lips, then continued, "well, to be honest I'm not quite sure what you were trying to ask with questions two and three, so I'll take a guess. Two, how am I here? Long story, but the short of it is that Evans is dead. Three, where did I come from? My mom is waiting in that car over there," she pointed over her shoulder. "She brought me here. And finally, four, yes I am absolutely okay!" she finished happily, before turning serious again. "Which is more than I can say for you. What happened?" she demanded, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow in her trademark move that meant she was not budging until she got an answer.

Sam grimaced, knowing dodging the question was useless. Instead he went for vague. "To quote you, 'long story, but the short of it is' a rough day at work is what happened. It's nothing," he stated dismissively.

"Samuel Braddock, that is the biggest heap of bullsh—crap I have ever heard," she countered sternly, glancing over her shoulder and changing her word choice as if she were concerned her mother might be in ear shot. "This," she gestured to encompass his entire body, "is not nothing. But, for the sake of saving your pride—foolish as it may be—I will allow you to redirect my attention because I am so happy to see you!" she finished exuberantly. "But don't make the mistake of thinking I will forget. We will come back to this subject!" she warned.

"Deal," he replied, grinning.

"Excellent!" she nodded, sealing the pact.

Sam broke into a coughing fit just at that moment, hunching over slightly in obvious discomfort, so Libby took advantage of that to get a good look at him without him staring back at her. Up-close, it was obvious that he was even more fatigued than she'd initially thought. She didn't see the usual physical signs—such as dark circles or puffy eyelids—instead she saw the almost complete lack of spark in his eyes. They had lit up when he first saw her and she was glad for that, but there was still a dullness to them that she didn't like and hadn't seen before, not even when he'd been lying in a hospital bed. Add to that the fact that his shoulders were ever so slightly slumped—beyond what was due to any injuries he might have—and she knew something was wrong. Initially, she'd just planned to surprise him after work, say hello and exchange hugs, then plan a meeting at a later time when he had more of a head's up, but she immediately scrapped that plan. This required an intervention. _Now._ Glancing back at her mother, who was still waiting patiently in the car, Libby made a snap decision and dearly hoped her parents would be okay with it.

Sam's coughing finally subsided and he apologized, but she just waved his apology away. "None of that," she stated dismissively, before continuing boldly, "Now, fair warning—well, I guess it's not fair warning since I'm only give you five seconds—I am going to kidnap you for the rest of the afternoon and possibly the evening. Or really, I guess it would be 'adult-nap' you, but that just doesn't sound right. Hm," she put a finger to her chin, pondering, "they really need to come up with a better expression and take the 'kid' out of 'kidnapping,' don't you think?" she mused, reaching her hand out towards him expectantly.

Sam didn't hesitate. He reciprocated her gesture and let her take his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze as she led him towards her car, chattering all the way. Yes, Sam had had other plans for after work, but he was perfectly prepared to drop everything. Nothing seemed to matter as much as this unexpected gift of a friend. So he put his complete and utter faith in Libby and followed her.

As they walked away from SRU headquarters, away from a terrible day, Sam could already feel his heart getting lighter. He left his bike chained to the rack, knowing it would be there when—or if—he returned for it.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** Hello again, everyone! Here is the sequel to _Timing_! I just couldn't let Libby and Sam's friendship go, and I heard from a few of you that a sequel might be appreciated, therefore I set about attempting it. It's taken me a while to come up with an acceptable plot line, but I think I finally have it. The main barrier I had to overcome was the fact that, at the end of Timing, Libby was in witness protection. Therefore, in order for this story to occur, I had to end her time there and the only way I could conceivably do so was by getting creative. All will be revealed eventually, but yes, you may have to suspend disbelief (that's why this is a work of fiction).

This occurs three years after the events of _Timing_. It deviates from cannon as Wordy is still with Team One (I really like the guy and wish he hadn't left) and Sam and Jules never got back together but are friends (yes, I like them as a couple, but if you've read my other stories, then you know that I don't write their relationship well and prefer to write their friendship).

I do not have the entire story written, but I have a general sense of its outline and direction—though as always, any input from you readers is appreciated and I do my best to accommodate requests/ideas! I hope updates will be fairly regular (bi-weekly? no promises, but I will try), and I will be alternating between updating this story and the other story I am working on— _We're In This Together—_ in a separate fandom _._

Unlike _Timing,_ this story will have a slower start in that we will not jump right into the action. This is because I wanted to give Sam and Libby some bonding time outside of a life or death situation and let them just be people. But I promise there will be action, heroics and hurt aplenty!

And hey, look at that! The first chapter doesn't end in a cliff hanger! This is incredibly out of character for me… but don't get used to it! I anticipate many cliff hangers in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.** Here's chapter 2!

Disclaimer: I still own nothing... sigh.

.

.

.

.

* * *

When Sam and Libby reached the small silver car, Alex exited it and hugged the SRU officer gently. She could tell that Sam was somewhat surprised by her greeting, but he returned her hug warmly. Though he hid it now completely—no sign of his earlier discomfort was visible—she'd seen the same thing her daughter had: how gingerly Sam had carried himself until he'd seen Libby. The gentleness of her hug failed to convey how happy she was to see the man up on his own two feet, awake and okay… for the most part. She owed this person too much to ever repay, though she knew from numerous conversations with her daughter that he would never, ever ask for anything in return. Even though she had never met him in person—not beyond seeing a pale, sleeping figure lying in a hospital bed—and even though she didn't recognize him until Libby stopped him, due to the fact that he was so different from her memory, so alive and solid now, she felt like she knew him.

Libby had spent hours talking about the young SRU officer who'd befriended and saved her, enough that Alex was fairly confident she knew him almost as well as her daughter did. She knew of his bravery and skill from his actions that saved Libby's life, but anyone could know that just by reading a newspaper article; though both his and Libby's names had been kept anonymous, the details had been extensive, all about an SRU officer who was in the right place at the right time and who saved fifteen people from eight gunmen, with the help of his team. But those character traits were superficial compared to his kindness and heart, which she knew of from what he'd given her daughter: safety, words of comfort and wisdom, unconditional friendship, and—most importantly—respect given to an equal and a peer. _If only there were more people like you, Sam Braddock. This world would be a brighter, less selfish place,_ she thought to herself wistfully. _I guess I'll have to settle for having you in Libby's life and making_ _ **her**_ _world a better place._

When she pulled away, she was pleased to see that he was smiling. "Officer Braddock, we haven't gotten the chance to formally meet. I'm Alex, Libby's mother, and I just have to say thank you. Thank you for everything you did for her and I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to be able to thank you in person. Witsec's a blessing and a curse," she admitted wryly.

"Please, just call me Sam," he replied. "None of this 'Officer' stuff. I just left work and would rather forget about it for today, and I'm Sam to my friends."

She nodded in acquiescence. "Well please, if there's ever anything we can do for you in return, don't hesitate to ask," she instructed him sincerely.

He nodded his understanding, but his eyes made it clear that—just as she'd suspected—he would never ask.

"Mom," Libby interjected from her position beside the blonde, "Sam is coming home with us."

"Of course he is," she replied without missing a beat, giving Sam no chance to catch any sort of hesitation in her voice. "That was the plan!"

It hadn't been the plan, but she trusted her daughter's judgement and Libby's eyes were silently begging her to follow her lead as if this had been the plan all along. Alex knew Libby had an uncanny ability of reading people—which was a double edged sword, because Alex herself could never hide anything from her daughter—and that Libby and Sam had formed a strong connection. Therefore if Libby thought Sam needed to come home with them, then that's exactly what he needed to do. Plus, Alex was looking forward to the opportunity to get to know the SRU Officer better. Though she knew a lot about him already from Libby, there was only so much Libby herself could learn about him from one whirlwind experience—Alex pretended not to know about their bi-yearly, two-hour-long, highly clandestine phone calls. And she wanted to actually talk with him, rather than just hear about him.

Sam was obviously worried he would be imposing on her and opened his mouth, probably to ask if she was sure it was okay, but she pre-empted him by opening her car door and getting in, calling out, "Libby, you're banished to the backseat. I won't have Sam stuffed back there where there's no leg room."

"But you're fine with me getting squished?" Libby demanded indignantly, already moving to scramble into the back so as to give Sam the impression that they fully expected him to follow.

"Absolutely. You're young and flexible; your bones will bounce back." Alex winked at her.

Responding to the duo's casualness and gentle encouragement to follow them into the vehicle, Sam rounded the car and tucked himself into the front passenger seat. Alex was impressed that he showed no sign of discomfort, though the motion of ducking into the tiny car couldn't have been easy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Riles," Sam murmured.

"Alex," she corrected firmly, noticing his mouth quirk up in a small smile. "Now," she continued without pause, "since we are so rudely abducting you, is there anything you need before disappearing to the depths of our household? Something from your home? The grocery? Of course, we plan to feed you, but I just thought I'd check in case you need anything specific."

"Yeah, do you have any allergies?" Libby piped up from the backseat. "I have an intolerance to nuts and it drives me nuts when people don't think to ask—pun intended," she added with a grin.

Sam shook his head. "I don't need anything and I don't have any allergies, thank you for asking, though."

"Well that's settled then." And with that, Alex started the car and drove out of the parking lot, leaving the SRU and everyone inside it in the rearview mirror.

(Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint)

The drive passed quickly and before Sam knew it, they arrived at a quaint bungalow style house in one of Toronto's many suburbs. Flower beds lined the house, neat and tidy enough that they were obviously cared for, but just wild enough to show character instead of immaculate perfection. A basketball hoop stood to one side of the driveway's large circular turnaround area, and boxes in various stages of being unpacked lined the interior of the garage. A "SOLD" sign was the front yard's most prominent feature.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," Alex explained as they unbuckled and exited the car. "We only started moving in two days ago."

"Yes, she made me wait _two whole days_ before she'd let me tell you we were back!" Libby exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and opening the door to the house. "It nearly killed me to wait that long! Patience still isn't my strong suit," she admitted, glancing at him sideways to see if he caught her reference.

He did. Her note to him was still stuck to his refrigerator—per her request (or orders, depending on how one looked at it)—and he re-read it frequently. He almost had it memorized, now.

Alex merely rolled her eyes at her daughter's dramatics and forged further down the hallway and into the kitchen, dodging boxes all the way.

When Sam entered the kitchen, savory smells and cheerful clattering immediately greeted him. A man stood humming away at the stove; the pots he was studiously rearranging were the cause of the clinking.

At the sound of the trio's entrance, he turned and smiled at them. "Welcome home, you two!" And then his eyes settled on Sam and his smile grew. "And welcome to our house!" He quickly wiped his hands on his apron and strode forward, shaking Sam's outstretched hand enthusiastically. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you! I'm David, Alex's husband and father to that rascal over there," he gestured over his shoulder to where Libby was surreptitiously trying to sneak a taste of something from the stove. She snatched her hand back the moment her father turned, plastering an innocent look on her face.

David raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't call her out. "Now," he turned back to Sam, "can I get you anything to drink? Beer, water, wine, milk…"

"Or Orangina!" Libby interjected, already pulling the bottle out of the fridge. "At least, that's what I'm having."

Sam smiled. "I would love a glass. There's nothing better on a boiling hot summer day than a nice glass of Orangina."

"You sure?" Libby asked uncertainly. "I didn't mean to pressure you into anything."

"I'm sure and you didn't," he assured her.

Drink in hand, he settled down at the small table in the kitchen and watched as David and Libby bustled around the room, working as a team to finish dinner. Alex had disappeared because she had to finish a few business emails before being able to clock out for the weekend. As Sam observed the father and daughter duo, laughing and interacting so easily with each other and with such care-free attitudes, he couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy, thinking about what he and his own father might have had, if only the General hadn't been so… well… military minded. He'd often wondered if things would have been different if his sister hadn't died, but that was a daydream. Because she _had_ died.

Pulling himself from those unpleasant memories, he pushed them away and turned his attention back to Libby and David. He was so glad that they had such a positive, connected relationship, and he chided himself for being selfish and thinking about his own troubled familial interactions. Feeling bad for just sitting there while they did all of the work, he rose from the chair and stepped forward to offer a hand, when all of a sudden he was attacked from behind.

Arms encircled his waist and squeezed tightly, and Sam thanked every god he could think of that he didn't lash out on instinct like he normally would—especially given the day he'd had. A small part of his subconscious must have known who it was before his conscious awareness caught up with it, because he didn't feel the need to defend himself. When his conscious awareness _did_ finally catch up with events, he peered over his shoulder with a grin and greeted his attacker, "Hey Tulio."

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** I was _sooooo_ tempted to leave the chapter at "when all of a sudden he was attacked from behind," but I decided that would be too cruel and misleading. Huh, this is the second chapter that I'm not ending in a cliff hangar... this is so out of character for me!

So there we go! Another chapter in. A bit of a slow start, I know, but Sam and Libby definitely deserve a break and Sam deserves lots and lots of hugs and friendship after the day he had... (and yes, eventually we'll find out what happened with the Team). I'm doing my best to give Sam and Libby some relaxed quality time together before the craziness hits again.

On another note, I always hesitate to create OCs because I know they can be hit or miss in an established fandom, and I'll be honest, I created Libby initially thinking she was going to be a small side character, and then her bold personality laughed at that and said "no, you're not relegating me to the sidelines," and then she promptly stole my heart. So fair warning, she will once again be one of the main characters, alongside Sam (and other members of Team One, of course!).

Additionally, given the nature of this story, other OCs (such as Libby's parents and people from another SRU team) will be necessary and I anticipate them playing a rather large role. I will do my best to provide everyone from Team One ample "screen time," so to speak (because let's face it, they are all awesome!) but I just wanted to give all my readers a heads up in advance :)

And in response to missblueeyes63, an excellent point about Lou, but alas he did not live... If I had planned better, I totally would have had him live, but I didn't include him in _Timing_ (never thinking I would write a sequel), so I can't really have him in this one.

Thanks for reading! Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N.** And here is chapter 3! And I'm actually posting it on time! Hope you all enjoy. There's this chapter and then one or two more (depending on how I decide to split them) and the action begins.

There also does still appear to be an issue with FF's notification system, sadly. If people really aren't getting consistent notifications, I may hold off on posting. I'd hate to do that though...

Ah well, enough musing on my part! Without further ado, I hope you enjoy chapter three, which is mostly just lovely fluff!

.

.

.

.

* * *

An hour and a half after Team One's disastrous debrief, Ed Lane finally exited the SRU building, headed for home. The debrief had been entirely unproductive, too full of angry yelling and scathing words. It had only served to work him up—and he'd been rather worked up to begin with, due to how badly the hot call had gone. Thus, it had taken him an hour of taking his anger out on the weights and the punching bag before he could even think about showering and going home.

He was the last of the team to leave and though it was early in the evening when he finally set foot outside, it still felt swelteringly hot. Toronto was in the middle of a week-long heat wave with no end in sight. He got into his car and winced as a blast of stale, molten-hot air hit him, looking forward to blasting the AC—though it would do nothing to change the fact that he was still fuming a little inside, unable to let go of his anger entirely. He buckled himself in, turned the key in the ignition, put two hands on the wheel, and froze.

Fifteen feet directly in front of his car, Sam's bike leaned innocently against the building. _No_ , Ed thought dazedly. _This is not happening. Not again._ Ed knew for a fact that Sam had left more than an hour ago. The blond had hardly stuck around long enough to shower after the briefing, but Ed knew the exact moment that he'd left because he'd tried to talk to Ed before doing so. When Ed had been wailing away at the punching bag, out of the corner of his eye he'd seen Sam approach him hesitantly, fresh out of the shower.

Ed had studiously ignored him, even when Sam had started, "Hey, Ed… I just wanted to…"

Ed didn't know what the other man had been about to say, because at that moment he'd slammed his fist into the bag and turned to Sam. Ed hadn't said a word, but he hadn't needed to; his expression said it all. He'd let every ounce of his anger and frustration bleed out onto his face, silently daring the ex-soldier to say another word.

Sam had returned his stare evenly, before sighing, shoulders slumping. "Have a nice weekend, Ed," he'd murmured, before walking away.

Ed had felt a momentary sense of satisfaction upon seeing Sam wilt beneath his gaze, glad that the younger man felt his ire. But as the hour had passed, his anger had cooled somewhat and he mostly just felt tired.

So when Ed's eyes were met with the sight of Sam's lonely, abandoned bike, his immediate reaction was numbness, followed by disbelief, then guilt. Numbness because it took him a moment to process what he was seeing. Disbelief because this was too much like a morning three years ago outside of an active situation at a store. And guilt because of how he'd left things with Sam… sure Ed was still angry at the guy, but if something had happened to him…

 _Okay, don't leap to the worst case scenario, Ed,_ he counseled himself. _There could be a perfectly good explanation, like that he decided to walk… five miles in 95° heat._ It wouldn't be impossible, but it didn't make any sense when Sam's bike was in perfectly good condition and would get the trip done and its owner inside and out of the heat five times faster than walking would have.

Unless something _was_ wrong with Sam's bike and he hadn't asked anyone else for a ride because of the fight Team One had had. Which just made Ed feel even more guilty.

Moving quickly, he exited the car and made his way over to the bike. Upon closer inspection, nothing seemed amiss—the tires weren't flat, no spokes were broken, the chain was still on track, brakes were in working order…

 _Dammit. Then where the hell is Sam?_ Pulling out his phone, Ed dialed Sam's number. It went straight to voicemail. _Dammit!_ This was feeling more and more like déjà vu. Moving quickly, he hurried inside and spoke with several people, just to check that Sam had indeed left when he thought he had. Everyone he spoke with only confirmed that yes, Sam had left well over an hour ago.

Ed tried calling Sam again, but there was still no answer. Finally, Ed decided he was overreacting. Sam was probably fine and had just decided to walk in order to use the extra time to clear his head, just as Ed had with the punching bag. There were no signs of foul play and if the whole Oakes incident had never happened, Ed wouldn't have been worried. It was just that this was too similar to that hot call for him to truly let his mind be at ease. All during the drive home, he couldn't help but wonder…

(Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint)

During the half-hour leading up to dinner, Tulio dragged Sam into his bedroom where he promptly showed the SRU officer his Lego collection, proudly pointing out original designs—such as a flying pirate ship—as well as sets that he'd made by following directions to the letter. The nine-year-old then dumped a large bag of pieces into Sam's lap and flattened an instruction manual out in front of him, explaining that he hadn't been able to figure this one out yet. It took Sam a half a second to realize this was Tulio's way of asking if Sam would be willing to help him. Looking around the room, Sam was amused to realize that the Lego sets were the only things unpacked—with the exception of the kid's bed—but Sam's amusement quickly changed to a feeling of warmth, touched by the boy's gesture when he realized what that meant; the Legos were obviously Tulio's most prized possessions and the fact that he was asking Sam to help him with a set… well, Sam could guess that Tulio didn't let just anyone work with his Legos.

Time passed quickly, and before they were even halfway through the manual, David called them into dinner. Scurrying down the hall, Tulio led the way, exclaiming all the way, "Mom! Dad! Sam's helping me figure out the Snow-Destroyer 2000 deluxe set!"

"That's fantastic!" David replied enthusiastically, steering Tulio and everyone else into the dining room. "We've been trying to figure that thing out for a while now," he explained to Sam as they settled at the table, "and haven't been able to make heads or tails of it." He turned to shout for the one person still missing. "Alex! You coming?"

"Coming, coming!" she responded, hurrying into the room. "Geez! Glad to have that done!" she sighed with relief, sinking into a chair. "Those people at the office, I swear! I don't know how they managed before I came along; I've only been working there a week and it's clear they're in way over their heads."

David leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Then it's a good thing they hired you."

As the food began to circulate its way around the table, Sam took the opportunity to ask, "Where do you work, Alex?"

"I'm an engineer at a solar energy initiative company and right now we're working on launching a huge marketing campaign that management is entirely unprepared for. Apparently I have three weeks to fine-tune the engineering side of the project and then work with my team to translate 'tech-speak' into 'every-day-person-speak,' to quote my boss."

Sam winced in sympathy. "Sounds like the next few weeks are set up to be pretty stressful for you."

"True," she agreed, before adding with a smile, "but it'll be nothing compared to the stress of Witsec."

A lull occurred in the conversation as they finished passing the food, and Sam worried they were going to turn his question around and ask him about his own job—and he was already mentally kicking himself for raising the question in the first place. He could talk about it without discussing the unpleasant events of the day, but it would still put a sour taste in his mouth and bring the events back to the forefront of his mind, and he was having such a lovely time letting go of them.

He worried for naught, however, because the next question had nothing to do with his work.

"So where'd you grow up, Sam?" Libby asked curiously.

It surprised him to realize that that had never come up in his phone conversations with Libby, but then again, there was only so much they could talk about in six hours over three years. He was also aware that his life was a minefield of potentially unpleasant topics, and of all of the questions typically asked in a get-to-know-you sort of situation (work, family, siblings, friends, etc.) that was the least painful. "Oh, uh, here and there. We moved around a lot because my dad's in the military, so we base hopped every few years, so I've been everywhere from just outside Toronto to various places in the Middle East."

"Was that difficult?" David inquired curiously. "Growing up," he explained, "I only ever lived in one house, even through college, and Alex only moved twice, so until Witsec, neither of us had much experience uprooting."

Sam shrugged, trying to downplay it. "It wasn't that bad. Yeah, it was hard to lose all of the friends I'd made every few years, but I got used to it. My sisters had a harder time than I did…" Sam trailed off immediately, astonished at his slip up. _Wow, I haven't made that mistake in a long time._ Usually he never mentioned that he'd had two sisters, due to the painful questions that it would raise. He never let himself forget Sarah, but he didn't share her with just anyone; the memory was too painful. Not that the Riles were just anyone. He was already friends with Libby and he found himself liking Alex and David more and more, and could easily see them forming a friendship. But Sarah was not a topic for the first get-to-know-you dinner, so Sam dove into talking about Natalie instead, hoping they would forget the implication that he had another sister.

By the time dinner wrapped up, Sam was regaling them with the story of a time that Natalie had broken his parents' bedroom window playing baseball, and had promptly framed Sam for it.

As they cleared the dishes, Libby went up to her mom and asked, "Would it be all right if Sam and I were excused from cleanup? If you're interested," she directed her attention back to Sam, a mischievous smile on her face, "I'd love to slaughter you at basketball."

"Of course!" Alex nodded.

"Me too, me too!" Tulio cried, leaping up and down.

Libby frowned at him skeptically. "You don't even like basketball," she pointed out. "Are you just trying to get out of cleanup?"

Tulio folded his arms, face a mask of indignation. "I've never liked basketball before because it's boring to play with you. But maybe if Sam's on my team I'll actually win once!"

"Sure, shorty," Libby nodded indulgently, before adding, "I guess everyone needs a dream to hold onto."

Tulio opened his mouth, no doubt about to shout something in outrage, but Libby turned around and took off running. "Last one out there's a rotten egg!"

And just like that, the need to defend his honor got overtaken by the need to not lose to his older sister. Tulio took off after her, shouting, "No fair, no fair! You had a head start!"

Before following them, Sam turned to Alex and David. "Are you sure you two don't want help in here?"

David shook his head. "No no, we'll manage just fine on our own. In fact we'd most appreciate it if you went out there and prevented those two from exhausting each other with insults, and also gave Libby some real competition."

"Yes," Alex interjected, "she far surpassed our skills over a year ago and we were never really in one place long enough for her to make friends to practice with, and she absolutely won't let us live it down!"

Sam smiled. "She planning on playing on a team?"

"Probably once she gets settled in school and the season starts, yes. She'll be the best player on the team," David remarked proudly.

"I have no doubt about that," Sam agreed. "I think that she has enough determination and enthusiasm that she'll accomplish whatever she puts her mind to. The world had better watch out. Speaking of which, I had better make my way out there before those two decide to gang up on me and score a bunch of points while I'm not there."

He headed out, back through the garage and to the concrete pad. He stood to the side, watching Libby first dribble circles around her brother, then pretend to lose control. Seizing the moment, Tulio pounced on the opportunity and stole the basketball away from her. Libby cried out in mock dismay as he raced to the basket (forgetting to dribble and instead carrying it the entire way) and threw the ball up in the air. The basketball came nowhere close to even touching the net, but Tulio didn't care. He pumped his fist in glee, thrilled that he'd one-upped his sister.

Sam smiled and went to join them, snatching the basketball up from where it had fallen after Tulio's attempt. Both kids' eyes lit up when they saw him and Tulio immediately declared that Sam was on his team. Passing the ball to Libby, Sam squared off with her, ready to start a game. As she made her move, spinning past him and effortlessly executing a layup that ended with the ball swishing through the hoop, Sam felt the last remnants of guilt, worry and stress of the day fade away. His entire body was still sore, and he knew he'd have to be careful with his right leg in particular, but he could forget all of that and just enjoy playing with Tulio and Libby.

Libby was indeed incredibly good. She outclassed Sam without a doubt, but he was able to put up enough of a fight that she had to work for the sixteen point lead she had after thirty minutes into the game.

After one of his shots bounced off the rim and she caught the rebound, he blocked her into a corner.

Crouched down, dribbling the ball back and forth between her legs, always keeping it just out of his reach, she grinned at him. "Getting tired there, Sam?"

"Tired?" he huffed, sweat dripping down his face—it was still at least eighty degrees out, even though dusk had started falling. "Nah, what are you talking about?"

Her grin grew wider. "Oh nothing, I just think you might be showing your age."

He raised his eyebrows. "You saying I'm old?"

"Yup. Absolutely. Old and tired. Want to know how I know?"

"Oh please, enlighten me."

"Because there's no way you're going to be able to move fast enough to stop what I'm about to do." And with that, she lunged to the left and Sam followed her movement to block her, but then she expertly twisted the other direction, and suddenly she was behind him. The only thing between her and the basket then was Tulio. Her brother took one look at his sister charging towards him, and he turned tail and fled. Libby pulled up ten feet short of the net and performed a stunning fade-away shot that buried itself in the hoop.

She whirled to face Sam—who had made no move to follow her once she'd made it past him, fully recognizing when he'd been beat—and challenged him, "Beat that!"

After that incredible display, Sam knew the game was effectively over, but he put in a valiant effort anyway, thoroughly relishing his time with the two Riles.

At one point he passed the ball to Tulio then swooped down to pick him up and put him on his shoulders. They made their way to the basket and the boy was finally able to get a shot to go in. He sat in stunned silence for a second, before throwing both of his fists in the air and shrieking with glee.

"I did it! I did it!"

Small hands gripped Sam's hair excitedly and Tulio shouted, "Sam! Let's do it again!"

They still lost the game—the final score was sixty to thirty-eight—but they had fun doing it. Eventually they admitted defeat and made their way back inside to the blessed coolness of an air-conditioned house, all three of them drenched.

Libby quickly got everyone a glass of water and began regaling her parents with a play-by-play of her victory. Sam listened, amused, but also a little awkward. He was sweaty enough that he didn't want to sit down or go farther into their house than the kitchen, and looking at the time, he thought he should probably be getting out of their hair pretty soon. It was only then that he realized he had absolutely no mode of transportation beyond walking, and that wasn't really an option, given that it would take him a good three hours to make it home.

When everyone else moved to go to the family room, then noticed that he hadn't followed, they turned and looked at him expectantly.

"Um," he started hesitantly, "I should probably be getting back. You've been more than generous with your time and I don't want to impose on you—"

He was cut off by four different replies.

"Oh nonsense. You aren't imposing!"

"It's no trouble! We're happy to have you."

"You're leaving?!"

And finally, "Wait! You can't leave!" Libby exclaimed. "There's a movie we need to watch together, remember?"

Sam looked at her in confusion, before recalling that Libby had discovered during one of their phone conversations that Sam had not gone to see Finding Dory in the theaters. Upon learning this, Libby had then told him he was not allowed to see it without her. And she promised that she wouldn't see it, either, so that they could see it with each other on the day they were finally able to meet again in person.

"I bought it the moment it came out but haven't watched it since then," she explained.

Sam looked down at himself, taking in his sweaty clothing, then looked back and met Libby's eyes. And he caved. He hadn't really wanted to leave yet, anyway, and with every member of the family telling him to stay, he was more than happy to oblige. "Well all right. Do you mind if I take a shower first?"

"Of course not!" David told him, just as Libby plugged her nose and said, "Please do."

"Libby!" Alex exclaimed, reaching over and smacking her daughter lightly on the head.

Libby squawked in good-natured indignation and apologized immediately, but the gleam in her eyes told Sam she'd only been teasing.

Sam couldn't help his amazement at how openly and willingly they'd welcomed him into their family, because it was very apparent to him that that was exactly what they were trying to do. They were making it clear to him that he belonged, as if it had never been a question in the first place. And who was he to say no to such a generous, guileless offer of friendship and acceptance? Following everyone farther into the house, Sam's heart felt full.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** I just want to give Sam a hug. He deserves so many hugs.

Also, the Lego set Tulio mentions is completely fictional. And if memory serves me, Sam's deceased sister is never named. Therefore I named her Sarah. Please correct me if I am wrong! And I also don't think we learn much about Sam's childhood/where he grew up? Goodness, clearly I need to re-watch some of Flashpoint.


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N.** Hello again! I'm still on schedule! And thank you to everyone who pointed out my error on Sam's sister's name. Now onward we go! I do expect updates to remain regular, so there should be a new chapter up every other weekend.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Halfway through the movie, Libby looked to her left and found Sam fast asleep on the couch. He was on his side, head resting on the arm and feet tucked up towards his chest in order to prevent himself from taking up too much space. Libby couldn't help but smile at the sight of him so relaxed and comfortable. Before today, she'd only ever seen him on high alert, tense, focused and ready for anything… or half dead in a hospital bed. She'd gotten a glimpse of a softer side to him when she'd gotten scared about climbing the shelves and he'd let her see past the walls that he used to hide the war, but that was all. In such a do-or-die, we-may-not-make-it-out-of-this-alive-but-we're-sure-as-heck-gonna-try situation, there hadn't been much opportunity for him to be anything other than intent on surviving.

But today, she had started to see a whole different side of him. Several sides, in fact. Walking out of the SRU building, she'd seen him terribly depressed and broken down, without any walls present. She'd seen the walls come back once she made her presence known, but only part way. She'd seen him hesitantly participate in her family dynamics, gradually lowering those walls further—though the walls around his work and his Team remained firmly in place—as he realized she and her family were openly curious about him and his life. And she'd seen his playful side, out in their driveway while playing basketball. At one point, he'd knocked the ball away from her and wrapped her in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides. He'd then proceeded to pull her down to the ground and yell at Tulio to get the ball and score. Her brother had gleefully pursued the ball and run to just beneath the hoop, throwing the ball straight up in an attempt to get it to go through. While her brother tried to score, Libby growled and wrestled with Sam, trying to get him to let go, all the while calling him a cheater. Sam had just laughed and held her tighter. Eventually Libby was laughing, too, so hard that she found it difficult to draw breath. Her struggles had grown less and less furious as she eventually gave up, partly because she didn't want to hurt him—she still remembered him limping in the parking lot at the SRU—and mostly because she could no longer breathe. Tulio eventually scored and Sam had let her go. She'd leapt to her feet, ready to jump back into the game, but Sam had remained lying on his back on the ground, chuckling. She'd toed his side gently, ordering him to get up or prove that he was indeed an old man. He'd obliged.

It thrilled her that their friendship—first forged in an intense situation, through gunfire, blood and fear—proved not to be a fleeting bond, but one that had lasted. She'd worried things would be awkward today, that perhaps Sam would just try to humor her out of a sense of duty or something, or that he'd brush her off now that she was a young teenager, but she'd worried for naught. She and Sam had hit it off as though no time had gone by, and she thought her parents and Sam were getting there as well. She'd prepped her family pretty hard for the past three years, telling them constantly that Sam was going to become an honorary member of their family the moment they got out of Witsec. They were going to adopt him. And she'd warned them that they had better not do anything to scare him away— after all, parents are notorious for being embarrassing. She'd also warned them of what little she knew about his past. She didn't know much, but she did know that he hadn't had an easy life, and that his family life in particular had been difficult. Therefore the idea of an open and welcoming family that wanted him as he was, that trusted him implicitly… well, she knew that that was going to be hard to hammer into his head. To make him understand that yes, they truly wanted him and weren't just putting on a show. But her parents had risen to the challenge. They, too, wanted to welcome Sam, and not just for their daughter's sake.

And now Sam seemed completely at ease. And it thrilled her that he was comfortable with them, enough to let his guard down to fall asleep in front of them. But while it thrilled her that her efforts had paid off and Sam evidently trusted them, she knew he wouldn't let himself fall asleep on them unless he was truly exhausted—mostly because he would think it was rude and wouldn't want to impose. So while it thrilled her, it also worried her. She couldn't even imagine what must have happened for him to be this exhausted. She surmised that he'd had a very bad day at work, given how he'd exited it—and she'd steered conversation away from his work for just that reason—and she could only guess that something serious had happened, not just a bad hot call, but something between Sam and his team. The clues weren't that hard for her to see. For example, the way he'd been so dejected leaving work. Normally she was pretty sure the Team would support one another and never let a friend leave with their head in such a bad space—she'd seen how close they were when they visited him in the hospital, how much they meant to one another, how much Sam meant to them. She'd also seen the way his phone kept lighting up during the movie, because someone was obviously trying to reach him. Normally this would be a good thing, someone trying to reach out and check in, but whenever Sam had glanced at it, she'd seen him frown, until finally he banished it to the side table, out of sight. Obviously, something was wrong, and obviously he'd had a terrible day. So she forgave him for falling asleep during their reunion. In fact, she was glad he had.

She scooted a little closer to him, not close enough to disturb his sleep, but close enough that she could just feel his presence, his "Sam-ness", his sturdiness and solidness that made her feel safe. Even though she was fifteen now, not the scared twelve-year-old desperately trying to survive in a store shootout, desperately looking for someone to save and protect her, she still appreciated how safe he made her feel. Just by being himself, just by being there.

By the time the movie ended, Tulio was almost asleep, so her dad got up and went over to him, scooping him into his arms.

"M'not tired," Tulio complained sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

"Shhh," their father shushed him. "Don't wake Sam up. It's time for bed."

Tulio glanced at the sleeping blonde as their dad started to carry the sleepy nine-year-old out of the room and seemed appeased. If Sam was asleep, it was okay for him to go to sleep, too. The pair disappeared upstairs.

Libby and her mother sat in silence for a few moments, watching the credits roll, before Libby asked hesitantly, "Should we wake him?" It was eleven o'clock at night, and while it was a Friday evening, she wasn't sure if he would appreciate waking in the morning to a strange place, realizing he'd spent the night.

Her mother considered the sleeping form, thinking hard and weighing the options, before she eventually shook her head. "It looks like he needs the sleep. He's not working tomorrow, so why don't we leave him be. We can write a note to tell him to please not run away if he wakes up before we do, and that he's welcome to shift to the guest room."

Libby silently cheered—that's what she'd been hoping her mother would say. "I'll get him a blanket and write the note."

She scurried quietly out of the room, returning a few minutes later with blanket and note in hand. Her mother was at the TV, turning it off and putting everything away. Libby carefully draped the blanket over Sam and was surprised and relieved when he didn't stir—she'd honestly been expecting him to. She then set the note on the side table, but before she turned away, a light caught her eye: Sam's phone. Though the phone remained silent, the screen lit up with the name "Ed Lane."

Libby stared at it for a few moments, torn between her manners and her protective instincts. Libby was livid. She'd interacted with Ed quite a bit after the hostage situation and had quickly grown to respect him. But her respect for him was now completely gone, replaced with disappointment and disbelief as to how a man who she'd thought was Sam's friend could do this to him. Her protective instincts won out. Snatching up the phone, she stalked into the kitchen and answered it but didn't say anything.

"Sam? Sam is that you? Are you okay?" Ed's voice demanded, sounding anxious and worried, which did nothing to mollify Libby's anger. "Where the hell have you been!?" the man continued. "Why haven't you been answering my calls? Why is your bike still at work? I just went to your house and you're not there. Where are you?"

Libby drew in a deep breath, doing her best to calm herself and give back a somewhat civilized reply. "To answer your first two questions," she started and heard a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line when Ed realized someone who was very much _not_ Sam was answering his phone, "No, this is not Sam. To answer your third, no, Sam absolutely is not okay, but if you mean is he in a hospital or anything like that, then yes, he's okay. To answer your fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh, frankly that's none of your business."

"Who is this?" Ed asked, voice suddenly ice cold. "And what have you done to Sam?"

"Someone who obviously cares a heck of a lot more about Sam than you do!" Libby snaps, her patience gone. "And for goodness sakes I haven't done anything to Sam but welcome him into my home, feed him a good meal, and give him a safe and non-judgmental place to be!"

There was a long silence, then finally, "Libby?" Ed asked in disbelief.

"Yes!" she practically shouted, only catching herself at the last moment when she remembered Sam was asleep in the next room. "I can't believe I'm gone for three years and I come back to this! I thought you people were friends! Teammates! Don't teammates always have each other's backs no matter what?"

Ed sighed. "Look, I know it's been a long and shi—" he paused, before amending, "—terrible day, and I'm still mad at him, but Sam _is_ my friend and I want to make sure he's okay."

"Well whoop-dee-doo for you. He's fine, no thanks to you. Now leave him alone. And you should be ashamed of yourself. Call yourself his friend? I don't even know what happened today, but I know Sam well enough to know that he did everything he possibly could to make things right. And you, you should _definitely_ know him well enough to know that, too. Think about it." She hung up, viciously hitting the end button. _Jabbing a non-existent button with your thumb just isn't as satisfying as slamming a receiver down,_ she grumbled to herself, wishing she could throw the phone against a wall, she was still mad enough. But since it was Sam's phone, not hers, she restrained herself. Turning around to head back into the family room in order to return his phone to the side table, she almost ran into her mother, who stood staring at her, a strange expression on her face. Libby could swear it was half pride and half disapproval. She opened her mouth, probably to reprimand her daughter, but Libby cut her off.

"That needed to be said. Sam wasn't going to do it and obviously something happened between him and his friends, and Sam wasn't going to stick up for himself, so I did it for him," she explained.

Her mother closed her mouth and regarded her for several moments, before nodding. "I understand, but remember you can't fix everyone else's problems, no matter how much you want to. And you do have a tendency to get a little over-involved in other peoples' lives. No matter how close you and Sam are, you did just meet again today after quite a few years apart and he might not appreciate you fighting his battles for him or sticking your nose in his business."

Libby took the rebuke for what it was: a gentle reminder that a lot had probably changed over three years, and she should be careful not to push things. "I know, but I can sure as heck try. Sam's given so much to me, the least I can do is try to give a little bit back." She did not regret a single word.


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N.** And here's the last little bit of fluff and setup. Things start to change next chapter!

.

.

.

.

* * *

The last thing Sam remembered was feeling warm, content and comfortable, sitting in the Riles' living room watching Finding Dory. He'd laughed at the cranky octopus, found young Dory to be absolutely adorable—which was weird because she was essentially all eyes… how can something that is all eyes be adorable?—and felt his heart melt at the shorebird short before the movie. Seriously. He'd been thoroughly enjoying himself once he'd banished his phone to somewhere out of sight and allowed himself to ignore Ed's constant calls and texts; he really hadn't felt like getting chewed out again. So he was a little surprised to wake up and realize that early morning light was filtering through the windows, the TV was off, the Riles' were nowhere to be seen, he had a blanket over him, and judging by the time, he'd slept the whole night straight through. He hadn't done that in he didn't know how long.

Sitting up stiffly, his leg and ribs made known their protest to yesterday's mistreatment. His eyes were bleary, but he felt more rested than he had in forever. It took several moments of processing before he realized, _Oh my god, I just crashed on them and spent the night at their house completely uninvited. Shit! They probably can't believe how rude and careless I am!_ Leaping to his feet, Sam was wide awake now and immediately went to grab his phone, fully prepared to flee the house and walk the three hours to his home with the idea that he would never see the Riles' again. But as his hand closed around his phone, his eyes fell on a handwritten note lying next to it. Hesitantly, he picked it up instead of his phone, immediately recognizing Libby's familiar scrawl.

 _Stop right there! Don't even think about it! If you set foot outside of this house before saying goodbye, I will hunt you down and pester you forever! And you know how determined I can be. Besides, this is an adult-napping! Remember? You can't leave the house without permission when you've been adult-napped._

 _If you wake up in the middle of the night and are reading this, please go back to sleep! You can either stay on the couch, or find your way to our guest room just down the hall on the right (the door is open). We are more than happy that you spent the night—we would have offered at the end of the movie anyway if you were still awake. So please don't feel embarrassed or guilty (knowing you, you probably still will, but stop it!). My parents will be up around 7:30 and I will be up at 8. We plan to go shopping for some house things downtown in the morning, and then take a trip to have a walk in a park this afternoon if you would like to join us. But no pressure! My adult-napping of you is over once we wake up, so no matter how much I want to keep you, I promise to drop you off at the location of your choice—or rather, I will make my parents drop you off at said location, and I will come along for the ride._

 _Hope you slept well! See you soon!_

Sam collapsed back onto the couch, head in his hands. _How can these people be so generous and trusting with me? They barely know me! And they welcomed me into their home, let me play with their kids, and didn't blink twice at me falling asleep and accidentally spending the night._ Sam couldn't help but feel that he was going to wake up at any moment, back in his apartment, to discover that this whole experience had just been a dream. A lovely dream, but nothing more. He'd wake up, the events of yesterday—the horrible hot call gone wrong, Spike's blood… all of it—would flood him, his body would scream in protest as he forced himself to move, he'd have numerous angry messages from his teammates, and his lovely evening with the Riles' would only be a dream, fading as the claws of cold, harsh reality sunk into him.

He sat for several moments, waiting for the bubble to pop, waiting for reality to set in … but it didn't. Yes, he'd woken up, yes the events of yesterday were threatening to clamor to the forefront of his mind, but he pushed them back. Yes, his body was stiff and sore, and he had quite a few messages from Ed blinking at him on his phone, but he was most certainly still in the Riles' house. His evening with them most certainly _wasn't_ a dream.

Head still in his hands, a slow smile spread across his face. Never in a million years had he ever imagined that Libby would come back into his life. They'd daydreamed about it whenever she managed a clandestine phone call, but he'd never thought it would actually happen. And the timing couldn't have been more perfect. Just when he was feeling terribly alone, she'd waltzed in with her sunny attitude, wit and gift of friendship, and suddenly, he no longer felt like he was about to drown. Her family was everything he'd wished his family could have been, so just watching their interaction and feeling like a part of them for a fleeting moment… well, it was enough for Sam. Even if this never happened again, even if they put him in their rearview mirror, feeling like they'd repaid their debt to him—even though he didn't feel like they owed him a debt—and never spoke to him again, he would hold onto the memory of these past twelve hours with everything he had. He would add it to the very small group of memories that he turned to in his darkest moments—Libby's unwavering faith in him and her letter being some of the others.

Glancing at his phone, he saw it was seven-thirty now and realized Alex and David would probably be making their way downstairs any minute. To occupy his time until then, Sam steeled himself and decided to go through all of his phone's messages.

There were thirty-eight text messages. All of them were various iterations of "Where the hell are you?" and "Answer your damn phone!" but a few—such as "Good god you had better be okay"—differed from that harsh messages to show some concern. That surprised him a little—he'd honestly never expected anything but anger—and made him think that maybe there was hope after all. Maybe Ed and the rest of Team One weren't ready to write Sam off completely.

There were also twelve missed calls and four voicemails. He couldn't bring himself to listen to them, so he just deleted them instead.

He was surprised and curious to see that they stopped shortly after eleven the previous night. And while he figured that could have just been when Ed had finally given up and gone to bed, he thought there might be more to it. Checking more thoroughly in his history, he saw that he'd apparently answered one of Ed's calls—his last call. And according to his phone, Sam had proceeded to have a two minute conversation with him… a conversation Sam had no memory of. Had he answered in his sleep? He must have…

Movement behind him alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes landed on the sight of Alex standing in the kitchen doorway. She waved sleepily at him. "Good morning," she called softly. "I hope you slept well. Can I interest you in a cup of coffee? David tells me that I am very unpleasant company before I've had my first cup of coffee. But I could say the same thing about him."

Sam rose to his feet immediately. "I did sleep well, thank you. Best night's sleep I've gotten in a long time," he admitted. "And I'm so sorry about imposing on you. I honestly can't believe I did that."

She flapped her hand at him dismissively. "Oh there you go apologizing. Libby told me you would. There's absolutely no need!" She turned to head into the kitchen, stifling a yawn. "But I can't have a proper conversation with you until I've had coffee. Otherwise my brain won't be able to properly rebuke you for your horrendous ideas of imposition." She gestured for him to follow her and he obliged.

Once in the kitchen, she pushed start on the coffee machine—having prepared it the night before—and proceeded to stand there staring at it.

Sam was about to say something, but reconsidered when he saw how intent her stare was. Instead, he grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard, set them down in front of Alex—he was pretty sure she mumbled a thank you—then sat at the small kitchen table.

Two minutes later and the machine beeped that it had finished. A few seconds after that and Alex placed a steaming mug in front of Sam before sitting across from him and sighing contentedly as she took her first sip.

"You're not a morning person, I take it," Sam commented after taking his own sip of coffee.

She smiled ruefully at him. "What gave it away?"

"Oh, just a wild guess."

"I envy those of you who are."

Sam shook his head. "Eh, to be honest I've never been one by choice, only by necessity."

She settled farther back into her chair, regarding him with soft eyes. "From your time in the military, you mean?"

"Yes, but not just from that. Or rather, not just from what you're thinking. While deployed, yes, but I've been a part of the military one way or another my whole life. Even when I was younger, the General made sure we were always up early being productive. And then once I left the military behind, the SRU keeps me up early, too."

"'The General?'" she asks curiously.

"Oh, uh, my dad," Sam explained a little self-consciously.

She seemed about to ask another question, but was interrupted by the arrival of David.

"Morning everyone," he greeted them cheerily.

Alex narrowed her eyes at him. "How on Earth are you so chipper already?"

"What can I say, I'm a morning person!"

"Well that's an outright lie if I've ever heard one." She stared at him for several seconds more before her face cleared. "You used the coffee machine in my office, didn't you," she stated authoritatively. "You didn't want to embarrass yourself with your grumpiness in front of Sam." At David's guilty look, she smiled smugly. "I thought so."

"Yes, well, moving on," David continued hurriedly. "Sam, have you thought about whether you'd like to join us for our family shopping and park outing?"

"David!" Alex scolded. "Don't corner the man with such a direct question so early in the morning! You'll make him feel obliged to go!"

"No no," Sam reassured her, "I don't feel like you are pressuring me. Honestly, I feel guilty that you and your kids are putting all of this effort into including me and I'm just sitting here like a bump on a log, mooching off of your home cooking and falling asleep in your house. You really don't have to continue to do this."

The pair stared at him for several long moments, making Sam feel uncomfortable, before they broke eye contact with him to look at each other.

"He thinks we're doing all of this out of some sort of feeling of obligation," Alex surmised.

"And he probably thinks we're grumbling about having to include him and will forget about him the moment he finally leaves, a moment we can't wait for," David added.

The pair looked back at him expectantly.

"Well…" Sam started self-consciously. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Alex set her coffee mug down and looked at him earnestly. "Sam, now that I've had some caffeine, I think I can manage to communicate something to you without screwing it up. No, we did not have you over for dinner, basketball and a movie, let you sleep in our house and then invite you on a family outing because of some feeling of pity or obligation towards you. Yes, three years ago you saved our kids' lives, and we will never be able to repay you for that, but that's not what this is about. Sam, you are without a doubt both Libby's and Tulio's _hero._ There is no one that they look up to so much as you. And frankly, from everything that Libby's told me about you, and from yours and my all too brief conversations in the past twelve hours, you seem like a pretty darn amazing human being. To put it bluntly, we," she gestured at David and herself, "want you as a friend. We want you to feel comfortable with us and to feel like a part of our family, just like Libby feels comfortable with you. So yes, maybe some of what we are doing stems from gratitude and a desire to return to you what you have given our kids, but it also stems from us wanting to get to know you better. That's it. Plain and simple," Alex finished sincerely. "There are no hidden agendas and there's no talking behind others' backs in this household. What we say is what we mean. Maybe that's not something you're very familiar with…" she left it open ended, not quite a question but not quite a statement… "but that's how the Riles house rolls."

Sam sat stunned into silence. Before he was finally able to muster up, "Okay. Then yes, I would be honored to join you on your family outing."


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N.** Thank you for your continued encouragement! To Bella(guest), I apologize that I was not able to post this prior to my usual update time. I really wanted to update last weekend, but if I'd done that, you probably would have to wait even longer for Ch 7! At this point, to the best of my ability, my updates will remain every other Sunday, but I hope that I'll be able to pick up the pace soon!

And here's the last breath of fresh air before the plunge!

.

.

.

.

* * *

Arms laden with bags filled to the brim with various house essentials—towels, bedding and more—Sam and Libby made their way out of the latest store that they'd vanquished.

"Goodness, who knew shopping could be so exhausting?" Libby puffed as they set foot outside in the blazing sun. Considering her words, she glanced sideways at Sam. "Don't answer that, seeing as the last time you went shopping with me, you ended up in the hospital. I'm surprised neither of us has PTSD from that experience and I'm surprised we can even set foot inside a store without turning around and running away screaming."

Sam smiled. Until Libby had just pointed it out, he hadn't drawn the parallel between their first encounter and this one. "Well, I for one have no intention of going to the hospital today, unless it's due to heat stroke, dehydration, or muscle fatigue from carrying too many items. I swear we just bought a bowling ball."

Libby looked him up and down and nodded sagely. "You're right, you don't look too good. I think we deserve a break. Food?"

Sam frowned. "Wait, no, I was only kidding. And besides, we just ate breakfast a few hours ago. It's not even eleven yet!"

"That's irrelevant," Libby stated, flapping her hand at him. "I am a growing person and therefore require copious amounts of food. Plus it's hot and that place over there," she pointed across the large courtyard and played her trump card, "has iced lemonade." She looked at him seriously. "I'd kill for something cold right now."

Sam raised an eyebrow at her. "We just stepped out of a department store that probably kept its internal temperature at a frosty sixty-five, and you want something cold?" Yes, Sam knew it was hot—the pavement reflecting the heat back at them only added to the scorching—but they'd only been outside for a minute.

Libby glared at him. "It's hot, Sam. Forgive me for not having your super-soldier thermostat and never-get-tired stamina."

He held up his hands in surrender—or tried to, but the various shopping bags hindered him significantly. "All right, all right, but I'm blaming you when we're late for the rendezvous with your parents and when they find out you've already eaten lunch."

They'd split up an hour earlier, Alex and David taking Tulio to shop half of the stores, Sam and Libby taking the other half, with plans to meet around twelve for lunch in this outdoor plaza.

"Food does not mean lunch. I'm definitely thinking this will be a second-breakfast." She glanced at her watch and her face brightened. "Actually, it'll be more like "elevensies!'" she cried happily. "I've always wanted to use that quote! Besides, this way we can scout out that restaurant and see if it's any good, and then we'll be in a better position to help Mom and Dad make a decision as to where to eat."

"You're going to admit that you ate an hour before lunch?" Sam asks skeptically.

Libby paused. "Hmm. On second thought, no. We'll just keep this to ourselves, shall we?"

Sam recognized that resistance was futile at this point—and an iced lemonade _did_ sound heavenly. "All right, how about this. No food, but we'll spring for lemonades. Deal?"

She paused with a finger on her chin, pondering, then nodded. "Deal."

They made their way across the plaza—which was huge, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings full of department stores, restaurants and miscellaneous offices—and found a table outside in the shade, despite Libby's complaints about the heat.

Just as they were settling down with iced lemonades, Sam's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, thinking it was probably Ed again, and grimaced when he saw who it was: Spike. He couldn't face the Italian yet. He'd already called the hospital earlier that morning to make sure Spike was okay, and the staff had assured him that his friend would be fine and had already checked out. Worry alleviated, Sam still felt guilty as hell and couldn't stomach the idea of the bomb-expert tearing into him. They'd see each other come Tuesday when they started their next shift. Sam could apologize—again—then and Spike could just wait until then to yell at him.

Declining the call, Sam stuck his phone back in his pocket and looked up to see Libby watching him with a frown on her face. "Is he still bothering you?"

"No, it's fine," Sam replied automatically, before doing a mental double-take. "Wait… what do you mean?"

Libby stared at him, wide-eyed, realizing her mistake. "Oh, uh, nothing."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Uh, huh," he drew out the words in a tone that clearly indicated he was not satisfied with her answer.

She started looking everywhere but at him, and even tried to distract him by pointing out a sign that amused her, but Sam just sat there in silence, arms crossed, waiting.

And Libby caved. "Uh, Ed," she explained guiltily. "I may have noticed that he called you quite a bit last night, and I may have, um, taken the liberty of answering one of his calls and, uh, telling him to leave you alone."

Sam stared at her, unblinking, processing her words, before he broke into a grin. "You did what?"

Libby looked at him uncertainly. "Told him to leave you alone? And that he's a terrible friend?"

Sam burst out laughing and quickly put a hand over his mouth in an effort to smother it.

She stared at him in confusion. "Honestly this was not the reaction I was expecting from you. Outrage? Yes. Exasperation? Maybe. Amusement? Not really."

"Oh I can almost picture his face," Sam smiled, still chuckling. "He probably started to get all growly and then didn't know what to do when you weren't me and started telling him off. Yeah, that might come around to bite me, but it was worth it to shake Ed up. And," he continued more seriously, "It means a lot to know that I have someone like you to stick up for me, someone who's in my corner. I thought my team was in my corner, and maybe they are, they're just… temporarily on leave after what happened yesterday."

"Well, Ed _was_ pretty growly and a bit of a jerk, but he was also concerned about you," she admitted reluctantly, "so I can't be _totally_ mad at him. Only ninety-eight percent mad at him."

Sam was surprised and tucked that piece of information away. Maybe there was hope.

She looked at him and asked hesitantly, "May I ask what happened yesterday?"

Sam sighed. He'd known that would come up in conversation eventually, and really, he was surprised Libby hadn't asked sooner—her self-restraint was impressive—but he still wanted to put it off until later. Sam rubbed his face and groaned. "Ugh, in a nutshell, a hot call went to hell."

"Well, yeah," Libby commented in a "well-duh" tone. "I knew that. Anyone with half a brain could see that. But what happened?"

Reluctantly, Sam explained, "I was in the Sierra position and a couple of my teammates—" he purposefully didn't name names "—got a little emotionally involved in negotiations and I had to make a call no one else was willing to make, and it didn't go so well."

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes searching his, clearly waiting for more.

He sighed. "How about this, I promise I'll tell you more about yesterday, just not right now. Maybe later today, okay?"

She nodded. "But I'm going to hold you to that," she warned.

"Fair enough. Now if you don't mind my asking, how did everything with Witsec end?"

She sat back and let out a breath. "Yeesh, long story." She sipped her lemonade. "Well, the short story is that Evans suffered a massive heart attack about a year ago and died not long after. His network of rats, crooks and toadies—which limped along during his imprisonment—broke down without their boss to lead them. They made some pretty major mistakes, and the police were able to mount a massive operation against the remnants of the gang, obtaining evidence significant enough to raid and imprison pretty much everyone.

"After that, my family had some pretty long talks about what we wanted our future to look like. None of us had really been thriving in the identities Witsec put us in, and Mom and Dad didn't want Tulio and I to grow up in such a," she searched for the right word before shrugging and settling on, "tense environment. They spoke extensively with officers and decided to end it. My involvement in Evans' trial was kept pretty secret, with my testimony only given in a closed door trial so that the public was kept unaware. As such, the police were certain that only a handful of people knew of my involvement, and of those people, all of those who might have intended me harm were now dead. Of course, the police did not recommend we leave witness protection, and my parents and I know we can't be one hundred percent certain, but we decided the benefits of leading a normal life outweigh the small amount of risk," she finished simply.

They sat in silence for a moment, before Libby grinned and slurped up the rest of her lemonade. Loudly. "Ahhh," she sighed in content, "that was delicious. Ready to get back out there? We still have a few things left," she told him, checking their list, "and I think I know just the place to get them."

Sam downed the rest of his drink as well, inhaling sharply as brain freeze pierced his skull, then nodded. "Lead the way."

They walked side by side across the plaza, chatting the whole way. Libby got onto the topic of school, and Sam asked her about what subjects—if any—she truly enjoyed. She hedged for a bit, clearly unwilling to divulge the information, but Sam finally wheedled out of her that—while she hadn't had a class on it yet—she'd picked up a camera about a year ago and absolutely fallen in love. Additionally, the school she would be going to in the fall offered both a photography class, as well as a collaborative club, and she was both ecstatic and incredibly nervous. She felt unsure as to how photography could be graded fairly, when it was such a subjective experience, but she loved it enough she wanted to give it a try.

Sam walked alongside her, content to listen and ask questions every once in a while, and as they moseyed along, he couldn't help but take in their surroundings. He wasn't scanning for anything in particular, but the habit of always being aware of what was around him had formed in the military and never truly left him. It was both a blessing and a curse. It helped him immensely while on the job with SRU, but the fact that he couldn't turn it off even when enjoying a relaxed, late morning shopping run with a friend… well, he'd learned to live with it, but once in a blue moon his senses would go hyperaware for some unknown reason, and now was one of those times.

So even as Libby told him about the photograph she was most proud of—one that he made her promise to show him—he noticed the flags hung limp on their poles; the wind offered no reprieve from the heat. A fountain splashed sluggishly in the center of the courtyard. A man pushed an empty baby stroller along the pavement, its wheels rattling and twisting with no weight to hold them down; Sam wondered absently where the child was, before he saw a girl run up to the man, shrieking gleefully. She was half soaked and Sam suspected she'd spent a few minutes playing in the fountain.

Two women sat side by side on a bench beneath an umbrella, laughing and talking. Another young couple walked hand in hand. A group of five people that could only be tourists traipsed along slowly, shoving each other and teasing. A few other clusters of people caught Sam's attention, as well as the occasional person clearly traveling solo. All in all, the atmosphere in the plaza was calm and pleasant, despite the raging heat.

As they wandered slowly back across the courtyard and passed the fountain, it was at that precise moment that Sam heard a noise that was totally incongruous with the lovely day he was having, the relaxed atmosphere and the public setting: a gunshot.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** And so the saga begins! I realize this chapter ending is very similar to the end of Ch 1 in Timing... ah well! And now we are back to the true cliffhangers! Sorry... Not sorry.

And like I said in Ch 1, you'll probably have to suspend disbelief as to how/why Libby is no longer in Witsec. I needed her to be out of Witsec, because the other possibilities for a sequel didn't really sit right with me. One was a time jump of many many many years (but where's the fun in that? Libby would be an adult, then, and I like her as she is. And I'm not a huge fan of time jumps). Another possibility was to have Libby visit Sam (or vice versa) even while in witness protection, but that didn't sit well with me either, because given the types of stories I like to write (action with a healthy dose of heroics, hurt and comfort) that would mean they encounter danger which would partially be their own fault since they would be visiting each other when they shouldn't be. So poof! This is my explanation.  
And no, the peril Sam and Libby are about to face is not caused by nor linked to the fact that she's no longer in Witsec. This is not people coming after her because now she's not hidden anymore. That would be wayyyy too much like Timing (though yes, I admit there are definitely similarities in the two stories... what can I say... there are certain things I like to write!).


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N.** I'm back! But a day late... apologies. It was out of my hands. Though this chapter focuses on bringing the Team in and doesn't really feature Sam and Libby, you'll still get an idea of what happened to them-but more on that next chapter!

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own the characters (except Libby! She's mine) or profit from them or anything.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. One, two, three.

Ed's feet hit the sidewalk as he cruised along on his late morning run. Emphasis on the _late,_ as it was almost eleven. He blamed the later-than-normal-start on the fact that he hadn't even been able to contemplate sleeping last night until he'd heard from Sam. He'd had a sick feeling in his stomach the longer the blond went without answering his phone; scenarios played over and over in Ed's head, all concluding Sam was in great peril. He'd frozen when a voice decidedly _not_ Sam finally answered the sniper's phone, seemingly confirming Ed's worst fears. It had been with great relief—and some not inconsiderable confusion—that he'd realized it was Libby and that Sam was safe and with a friend. Of course, the moment the relief hit him, his anger at his teammate had returned. But his mental tirade had been stopped in its tracks by the words of a furious fifteen year old. So even once his worry settled with the knowledge that Sam was okay, it still took him hours to fall asleep, her rebuke and the events of the day swirling in his head long after the call ended.

So yes, he'd gotten a rather late start, and while usually running let him clear his head, he couldn't quite shake everything that happened yesterday. He was still livid at Sam's actions and maintained that he, Ed, was in the right, but Libby's words wouldn't leave him alone.

 _"Call yourself his friend? I don't even know what happened today, but I know Sam well enough to know that he did everything he possibly could to make things right. And you, you should_ _ **definitely**_ _know him well enough to know that, too."_

She was right that Ed _should_ know Sam well—they'd been working together for a lot longer than Libby had ever known Sam for—and Ed liked to think that he did know the blond, but how could what the man had done yesterday _possibly_ have been "the right thing to do?" Ed was sure there must have been another way and Sam was too stubborn to see it and had disobeyed orders and gotten a teammate injured because of his arrogance. Had injured _Spike._ And Ed just couldn't see past that. To him, that was absolutely unforgiveable.

His house came into view. With the end of his run in sight, he picked up his pace to a sprint and made it to his front step, pulling out his phone to check how long it had taken him, and smiling when he saw he'd done it in record time. As he was about to put his phone back in his pocket, he saw the screen light up with a call, but frowned when no noise accompanied it, as he hadn't recalled putting it on silent. The notifications also informed him that he had missed several calls, which deepened his frown. But he shrugged it off, as there was nothing he could do about it and smiled when he saw who the current caller was, and quickly answered it. "Hey Wordy," he greeted warmly, still breathing hard.

"Ed, there's been an incident," Wordy replied, tone short, immediately wiping the smile from Ed's face.

Everything came to a crashing halt as he froze with his hand turning the door handle. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind, none of them good. He took a deep breath, trying to even out his breathing, before he cleared his throat and asked Wordy uncertainly, "What kind of incident?"

"A shooting ten minutes ago in a plaza somewhere downtown."

Of all of the possibilities, that was not one that had crossed Ed's mind. His mind had immediately delved into the more personal side of things, concerned Spike had taken a turn for the worse or that something had happened to someone else on their team. When Wordy erased those possibilities and explained it was a hot call, Ed felt guilty when he thought, _thank god it's only a hot call._ A hot call was serious and it meant someone's loved ones were in danger, but the selfish side of him was relieved that it wasn't _his_ loved ones. But that made him feel even more guilty.

Rubbing his head with a hand, trying to focus his thoughts again, he demanded, "What's the situation?"

"There are casualties. Lots of them. A sniper is set up in a surrounding building somewhere taking shots at anything that moves or tries to enter the square. SRU has called in all hands on deck—unis, the fire department, everyone. Team Four's running lead, but they need all the help they can get; there are more than a dozen buildings that need to be cleared, not to mention crowd control and finding the subject. I'm headed to HQ to grab my gear."

Ed closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, picturing the chaos that had descended on downtown Toronto. He'd had a quiet day planned, a day spent with his family, maybe going to a park or out for ice cream to ease the heat, but all of that flew out the window the minute Wordy called. Ed had no obligation to respond, but he couldn't say no and ignore it. "Okay Wordy, grab mine, too. And a car if one's there; traffic will be gridlocked, we'll need the lights and sirens to get us through. Which plaza? Can you pick me up or should I meet you at HQ?"

"Uhm," Wordy hummed, before Ed heard a shuffling in the background and Wordy's voice faded, muttering something to himself, then returned in full strength, "Yeah you're on the way. I'll pick you up. Be there in ten."

The call ended.

Ed sighed. _Today's going to be a long day… I can just feel it._

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Ten minutes later, a black SUV screeched to a halt in front of Ed's residence just long enough for him to jump in the front seat, then tore down the road, leaving smoke and burned rubber in its wake.

Wordy was already dressed in full tactical gear, but Ed would have to wait until they arrived on scene.

"Any update?" Ed asked as Wordy wove in and out of traffic.

Wordy shook his head. "I've been too busy grabbing gear, driving and trying not to break my neck in an accident, I figured I should stay off the phone. And I'm sure things are crazy on scene; I doubt anyone would answer my call anyway."

"What about the rest of the team?"

"I can't get a hold of Greg—he said something about leaving town for a few days, needing to 'clear his head' after shift yesterday?" Wordy stated uncertainly.

Ed had a vague recollection of the Boss saying something like that, so he nodded.

At Ed's response, Wordy continued, "Jules is coming in; she was at HQ when the call came in—why, I don't know—so she'll probably beat us there. I didn't call Spike, I figured he shouldn't be out anyway, and I couldn't reach Sam…" he trailed off, glancing furtively at Ed before finishing, "but after yesterday, that doesn't surprise me."

Ed frowned, hurt that one of his oldest friends seemed against him. "Don't tell me you're taking his side!"

"No, no, don't misunderstand me," Wordy reassured him quickly, "I'm not taking sides or passing judgement. It was just a statement of fact. I think that Sam's probably feeling pretty guilty right now and is avoiding us."

"As he should be," Ed growled.

Wordy sighed. "Okay, Ed, whatever you say, just try to put that behind you for now and focus on the task at hand."

Ed didn't dignify that with a response.

A handful of minutes later, they arrived as close to the scene as their SUV could get them. At a certain point, the police wouldn't allow them to go any farther, ordering them to proceed on foot. Donning his tactical gear quickly, the pair set off at a jog after getting directions to the command center, two blocks away.

They found the command center set up in a storefront facing the square, only a few hundred feet from it. Firefighters and brass of varying levels all huddled around Troy, Team Four's Sergeant. The group appeared to be analyzing maps of the plaza and communicating to various other people over the radio.

"Troy!" Ed called as he and Wordy burst through the doors to the store, entering the welcoming cool of air conditioning.

The Sergeant looked up and met eyes with the rapidly approaching pair, nodding in appreciation. "Thanks for coming, gentlemen. We're going to need everyone we can get on this."

"Of course," Wordy acknowledged, before asking, "What's the situation?"

Troy grimaced. "In a nutshell? A hell of a lot of bodies and the promise of more to come. There are more than a dozen people strewn about in the open back there," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the plaza. "We think one or two of them might be playing dead, but there are at least ten confirmed fatalities. This guy likes headshots."

Ed grimaced at the picture Troy painted. He'd been about to ask how they knew ten were dead, but Troy had answered his question before he could even voice it.

"A handful of people made it out of the square, and I have officers interviewing them as we speak, trying to get a handle on this thing. There are approximately thirteen people hunkered down in the plaza in areas that appear to be inaccessible to the subject. People are using everything from garbage cans to concrete walls as cover."

Ed looked to where Troy pointed, identifying a few of the hiding spots people had found. From here, he could see one couple huddled together behind a garbage can, and two others hiding behind a raised concrete planter. From this angle, he couldn't identify the couple behind the planter, in fact he could only see their legs, their bodies obscured by the concrete wall. In his cursory examination, a small part of him realized that one of them only had one shoe on, the other foot was bare.

"Damn, that's a lot of hostages," he muttered. "And this heat is working against us, because even for those still alive, they're going to be getting dehydrated _fast,_ not to mention heat stroke and all other kinds of lovely complications."

Troy snorted. "You're telling me. And getting them out of there is going to be one hell of a job. We can get pretty close to the plaza, but not close enough. The very edge of it is safe so long as you're under an overhang or in a storefront. To be more precise, the hastily erected caution tape," Troy gestured to a line closer to the plaza, "marks a conservative estimate for what we think is out of the subject's range. I've ordered emergency personnel not to cross that line. We can approach it in order to get better visuals in the square, but crossing it right now is suicide. According to witnesses, the subject's already shot someone who tried to make a break for it before we arrived, so it's safe to assume he'll shoot anything that moves."

Ed grimaced. "Understood."

"Any luck contacting or locating the subject?" Wordy asked.

Troy shook his head. "No, but we're working on it. I have the best techie analyzing the angles of the people who appear to be in safe locations, trying to give us an estimate. He'll let us know the minute he finds something. We haven't been able to make contact with the subject, and he hasn't fired since we arrived, but we think that's only because no one in the square has tried to make a break for the edge—not since they saw someone not make it. We've megaphoned the people in the square, telling them to stay put for now and if they have a phone, to call a line set up for them."

Ed nodded approvingly. "Do you have a Sierra, yet?"

"No, what's the point?" Troy responded tersely. "Until we get an estimate of which direction the sniper is, I could send someone into the exact same building that the sniper's using and then they'd be useless as a Sierra."

Ed held his hands up in supplication, trying to reign in his desire to take command, reminding himself that this wasn't his scene and that Troy was a damn good Sergeant. "We're here to help, not question your judgement. What do you need?"

Troy flashed him a grateful look. "Right now I need everyone I can get to interview witnesses that made it out of the square—they're congregated near the perimeter—and to push the perimeter back. I want to expand the perimeter from one block to two. It's amazing, you tell people there's a sniper and some of them run away, while others clamor forward trying to get a video of the action, hoping it will go viral online," he huffed in disgust.

"Got it. Wordy, you're with me," Ed ordered. "We'll go interview witnesses. You said they're in a certain area on the perimeter?"

Troy nodded and called an officer forward. "Please escort Constables Lane and Wordsworth to the witnesses."

They made their way to the perimeter, where just as Troy said, a not insignificant crowd was gathered. Officers were working on moving them back, and Ed could see that Jules was one of them.

Focusing back on task, he began interviewing people.

"It all just happened so fast, I could hardly understand what was going on!"

"Man am I glad I was on the edge, man. I mean, I'da been dead for sure if I was in the middle!"

"Oh those poor people, I can't even imagine what their families are going through, and everyone still stuck in there?"

"Seemed like shots were coming from every angle every second! I just don't understand what would make someone do something like that!"

"All I heard was the first bang and I thought a car had backfired, but then people started running and screaming, so I started screaming and running. I never heard a second shot."

And on and on and on. In varying levels of detail, witness after witness described the chaos that erupted. But despite the numerous witnesses, no one had any idea how many shots had been fired or what direction they'd come from. In short: nothing useful. Ed was about ready to pull out his hair—metaphorically speaking—when he finally caught a break. A group of tourists had been making a video for their blog, recording their adventures and having a good time after an early lunch, when the first shot was fired. The video was shaky and blurry, and only had about twenty seconds that showed the square—before its owner had clearly taken off running, phone in hand, pointed at the ground—but it was something.

Ed got the witness to transfer the video to his own device, took their statement, and moved to a spot where he could watch the video more closely, without being disturbed. He planned to hand it off to the techie Troy spoke of earlier just as soon as he could, but wanted to see it first.

The video started with the five tourists laughing and talking. They passed the fountain and were somewhat close to the edge of the plaza when the first shot rang out. The video jerked in response—it's holder apparently having flinched—and turned to focus on the square.

The video was too jittery and blurry to show much. All Ed got were flashes of images: a person was prone on the pavement near the fountain, a man swooping a child into his arms, stroller abandoned, a couple running past the camera out of the square, screaming, two blond heads diving for the pavement, shopping bags flying, another person jerking then dropping to the ground, not to move again. And that's all. From there the video showed only blurred pavement and hands as its owner wised up and took off.

Shaking his head, he tucked the phone in his pocket and turned to make the trek back to command center, calling out to Wordy to let him know. "Hey, Wordy, I found a video that might be helpful. I'm gonna run it back to Troy's techie, see if he can find anything on it."

Wordy waved in response to let him know he'd heard, and Ed turned to leave, when a commotion caught his eye. A distressed couple was clearly trying to make it past Jules, a young boy trailing behind them. Jules wasn't having it, calmly ordering them to stay back and go home. It seemed to Ed like Jules had it in hand and he would have dismissed it and gone on his way, but he saw Wordy frown in confusion and start to move in that direction.

Jogging after him, Ed grabbed his friend's arm to stop him. "Hey, Wordy! What are you doing? Jules has got it."

Wordy looked at him, frown still on his face. "I'm not going over there to back Jules up, I'm going because I think… I think I know those people," he informed Ed quietly.

Ed was so stunned that he let Wordy go and stood frozen for a moment, then had to scramble to catch up with him. They drew to within earshot just in time to hear Jules' temper snap.

"Look!" she yelled in frustration, "I know you're worried, but for your own safety—"

"Please!" the man cried. "Our daughter might be in there!"

"Well it's not going to do her any good if you get yourself shot!"

"You don't understand! You should be worried, too! One of your own might be in there!" the woman shouted.

"What?" Jules demanded, confused. "What are you saying?"

Wordy and Ed drew alongside Jules and Wordy intervened. "Mrs. and Mr. Riles?" he asked hesitantly.

The couple zeroed in on the person who had called their names and Ed could see the relief flood them. "Wordy, thank god!" the woman—apparently Mrs. Riles—sighed in relief.

 _Riles… why does that name sound familiar? In fact, the couple themselves looks familiar, too…_ Ed wondered, trying to place them. The couple clearly knew his teammate, and as he stared at them, suddenly he remembered his phone call to Sam last night, the one where it wasn't Sam who answered, but Libby. Libby Riles. And everything clicked into place. The last—and only time—he'd seen the couple standing before him was at the end of a hospital hallway, embracing their daughter as she leapt into their arms, all at the end of one of the most intense, difficult days Ed could remember.

And if Libby was here and unaccounted for, she was probably in the square. And they seemed to think Team One might have a "colleague" in there and Ed knew Libby was with Sam last night when she answered his phone…

Ed closed his eyes in despair. _Dammit! Are you freaking kidding me, Sam?! How does this always happen to you?_

"Are you saying you can't find Sam and Libby?" Wordy clarified.

"Yes!" Mrs. Riles exclaimed. "We were supposed to meet in the plaza in fifteen minutes and her phone is just going to voicemail! Maybe, maybe they made it out? Maybe her phone just isn't working?" she finished, but without any real hope.

The bottom fell out of Ed's stomach as a small part of his brain whispered, _two blonds. You saw two blonds hit the pavement._ Fumbling his hands, he pulled the phone out as he listened to the conversation continue.

"Wait, why was Sam with you?" Jules demanded. "And what are you even doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in witness protection?"

"What does that have to do with anything right now?!" Mr. Riles growled. "Our daughter and friend is in danger, _again_ , now can you _please_ let us through?"

The video went full screen on his phone and he watched each frame slowly, desperately hoping that he was wrong. But his hopes were dashed when four seconds after the first shot, two blonds could be seen within the field of view, one significantly taller than the other, pushing the shorter one to the ground. Ed could only see them from the back, but now that he knew what he was looking for, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the pair was Sam and Libby.

"Ed?" Wordy prompted softly, concern shining in the man's eyes and Ed realized someone must have just addressed him, but for the life of him he had no idea what had been said.

He cleared his throat. "Let them through and put them with the rest of the witnesses." Saying nothing more, he turned and took off for the command center. Before he brought this nightmare down on everyone else, he had to make sure. He arrived back at the plaza without any memory of the sprint down the block, and handed the video to Troy with a mumbled explanation. He didn't stick around to see the Sergeant pass the video off to his techie, and instead went outside to the line they'd established as safe. He got as close to it as he could and scanned the square. First, he focused on the bodies he could see lying out in the open, hoping and praying that none of them would match the faces of Sam and Libby. He couldn't see all of them—the square was too big and there were too many visual obstructions—but of the ones he could see, none of them were familiar.

 _Thank god. Maybe they made it out._

He turned his attention to the people he could see hunkered down in shelter. None of those were Libby and Sam, either.

Thinking back to their position in the video, he located it in the square and scanned that area. Unfortunately, it was very near to the center, but he could see that they weren't sheltering by the fountain. The only other option was a large raised planter full of flowers and surrounded by a three foot tall concrete retaining wall. When his eyes landed on that, he recalled seeing a pair of legs peeking out from there earlier, though he couldn't see them now from this position.

Walking along the perimeter to get a better angle, he moved until he was side on with the wall… and there they were.

Part of him flooded in relief. Part of him flooded in despair. They were at least a hundred yards away from the edge, as far from any sort of help as they could possibly be.

Only then did he become aware of Wordy yelling at him from two feet away. And from the volume of his voice, Ed was pretty sure he'd been yelling for quite a while. "Ed, what the hell is going on?!"

He turned his gaze to meet his friend's and swallowed. "They didn't make it out."

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** As people who have read Timing probably know, Ed is the person I have the most trouble keeping in character. He's just difficult for me (but I love him), but hopefully he doesn't feel too OOC.


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N.** Thank you to everyone who prodded me to update. Your encouragement, concern and continued nudging hasn't gone unnoticed and absolutely helped motivate me. I know it has been too long, and there are two reasons for that.

The first is that I got a little stuck with this chapter. I wrote it months ago and didn't like it, so I rewrote and edited it so many times but I just wasn't happy with it. Finally I just said screw it and here we are.

The second is that given the nature of this story, _particularly_ starting with this chapter, it felt insensitive to post too soon after the shooting in Las Vegas.

So **WARNING!** the events of this story and chapter do hold similarities to the Las Vegas shooting, purely by coincidence. I've had the plot written out for a while and the similarity of this story to events in the real world was absolutely not intentional. Please be aware going in and do not read if you feel you will be triggered by descriptions of gun violence and targeted violence. I have added a warning at the beginning of the story, too.

As for the story itself, we have a little bit of a rewind timeline wise as we catch up on what Sam and Libby have been doing. Happy reading!

.

.

.

.

* * *

The gunshot shattered the air, its shockwave of sound reverberated and echoed in a confusing cacophony. Almost simultaneously, a man jerked and crumpled to the ground. Seconds later, another "BANG" deafened Sam's ears and a woman collapsed not ten feet in front of him and Libby. Two seconds, and their world erupted in chaos. Two seconds passed in the blink of an eye as two people met their end. The next two seconds lasted an interminable age.

Sam's mind raced as time slowed, as if the air had suddenly thickened from a hot, muggy mess into thick, dense molasses. The first scream rang out, distorted and muted. The panic set in as people turned in slow-motion, racing for the plaza edge as if caught in a nightmare where they'd forgotten how to run. The screams, the panic, the fleeing people, the fountain… Sam tuned all of that out as pointless, inconsequential noise. Instead, he focused on each gunshot and each victim, cataloging and analyzing those data points on the fly.

Two seconds, two shots, two victims. It wasn't much to go on, but they led him to a horrifying conclusion and a gut feeling that indicated there was _no_ other possibility. Snipers tended to prefer a smooth transfer between targets: a line, not scattered victims. It saved time, effort, and maximized casualties.

The first victim: approximately thirty feet in front of Sam and Libby. The second victim: approximately fifteen feet in front of them. Two points that made a line headed straight for them. He could practically feel the gun barrel pivoting ever so slightly to focus them in its crosshairs; the next shot would be headed straight for either him or Libby. And every instinct was screaming at him that Libb _y_ was next. She was two feet closer to the last victim, and though Sam's larger size offered the easier target, he'd heard two shots and seen two victims go down with headshots, which meant this sniper was very good. _Scary_ good. And _fast._ Sam's slightly greater body mass wouldn't make a difference. Instead, if the sniper wanted to maximize casualties—which Sam had no idea was the case, but it seemed a reasonable guess—he would go after the next closest person: Libby.

Libby stood stock still, a look of horror on her face, no doubt flashing back to the two times she'd encountered gunfire in her life. Two times too many for a fifteen year old. But behind the horror, Sam could see anger, too. Anger that once again, she'd been put in this position. He registered all of this in less than a tenth of a second, but most importantly, he registered that she was frozen: a perfect target.

Bags fell to the ground, items spilled onto the pavement in disarray as he threw them from his arms and lunged toward Libby, desperately reaching. Time warped, which made him feel like he was moving too slowly, that he wasn't going to make it.

His hand brushed the back of her shirt, then contacted with her shoulder as he pushed, not thinking about the amount of force he was using, how hard he was throwing her to the ground, focused only on _getting her out of the sniper's sights._ Both of his hands finally landed on her back and he shoved, moving forward to cover her as they both began to fall to the ground. Just as she stumbled a step forward, her head ducked down and arms extended to break their fall, Sam felt the impact of the bullet he'd known was coming. It punched into his chest, ripping the breath from his lungs and leaving him with a single thought: _thank god it's me and not her_. Then pain ricocheted through his body, burrowing into his veins like hundreds of burning embers, igniting nerves from core to limbs.

He could deal with pain, however, at least temporarily. He wasn't a stranger to it, he knew how to channel it, how to use it. But just on the heels of the inferno, an all-consuming numbness slithered in after the embers, quenching them and leaving him with nothing but a disturbing lack of feeling. No more fire to focus on, no pain to fight through, just an icy nothing that stole the strength from his muscles and made him powerless to stop himself from crashing down on top of Libby.

He heard a sharp _"snap!"_ accompanied by an exhale from Libby, but had no time to process what that might mean, because at that moment, time suddenly resumed its normal pace.

Gunfire continued as the sniper moved to other targets, but Sam knew their reprieve was temporary at best. They needed to move, _now,_ but no matter how much his brain recognized that fact, his body would not listen.

Sam had been shot before, and he'd always been able to push through it, to continue moving, continue the mission, but this time felt different. Disturbingly different. He'd never felt so much _nothing_ so immediately, like a vortex had opened within him that devoured his will to do anything, destroyed his ability to compartmentalize. Without that, the numbness wrapped around him and would not let go, leaving him with no course of action to fall back on; he could barely draw in breath to feed his starved lungs, let alone make it to his feet. All his body wanted to do was give into the void, lie down and let the scorching pavement kiss his face.

It was Libby who saved them. She shoved upward, forcing Sam to his hands and knees and wriggled out from under him. "We've gotta move, Sam!" she yelled, a frantic but determined light in her eye.

At her urging, his muscles finally began to respond, but they were sluggish and seemed unconcerned with the direness of the situation; his feet kept skidding out from under him, sending him back to his knees, until a strong hand seized his upper arm and Libby's lithe body slipped underneath him once more. She pulled his arm over her shoulder as he finally managed to pull his feet under himself and they both made it upright.

People were still screaming, running for whatever cover they could find and making for the edges of the plaza, and people were falling left and right. The gunshots came in astonishing rapidity, faster than Sam thought even he could accomplish. And of course, because apparently both his and Libby's luck was terrible, they were stuck standing practically in the middle of the square. Libby started to take a step to the right, headed for the nearest edge, but Sam calculated how far they'd have to go to get there and knew they wouldn't make it; though Sam's muscles had finally awakened from their frozen coma and seemed marginally functional, he knew they would be mowed down before they made it twenty steps. With a grimace, he tightened his grip on Libby's shoulder and took a step in the opposite direction. It spoke volumes to the amount of trust Libby had in Sam that she didn't even hesitate to follow his lead and move farther into the plaza.

Four steps, four steps was all it took to carry them to the relative safety of a concrete planter. Despite his muscles' spontaneous vacation, his brain had automatically been analyzing all of the angles ever since the first shot was fired, and by his estimate, the sniper wouldn't have a shot on them there. It was only a guess, and sixteen inches of concrete hardly seemed worthy of being called "safe," but it was their only chance.

They slid to the ground behind the wall and watched in horror as the rest of the carnage played out before them. Two women raced for cover, hand-in-hand, which meant that when one went down, the other soon followed. The man Sam had seen earlier, the one with the stroller and child, sprinted towards a planter not far from Sam and Libby's, wailing child in hand. He dove behind it just as the concrete above his head exploded. As far as Sam could tell, with the number of gunshots he'd counted and the number of bodies he could see, it was the sniper's only miss.

Lying flat on their stomachs, they huddled next to each other as the square fell silent. Motionless. Even the child twenty feet away in the man's arms stopped wailing. The oppressive heat weighed down upon them as an unseen eye watched from the scope of a rifle, waiting. For an entire minute, no one moved. A false calm permeated the air, disturbed only by Sam's labored breaths and the pounding of his heart, by Libby's silent shudders, by the discordant cheerful burble of the fountain. Then the illusion of serenity shattered as a man near the edge of the square, hiding beneath a bench, rolled out from under it and sprinted for safety. For freedom. Sam could only watch as the man made it no more than ten steps before the familiar crack of a gunshot struck the square and the man fell.

After that, no one moved.

Next to him, Libby inhaled shakily. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay we're staying right here. We're safe here, right Sam? We're gonna get out of here?" she asked in a small voice, looking over at him with eyes full of fear and hope.

Sam drew in a shuddering breath in order to answer her, to promise her that yes, he would find a way to get them out of this, just like he had last time, but his body rebelled and a painful cough emerged instead. Clamping down on his spasming lungs, he forced his body to relax and turned his head to meet Libby's gaze, then immediately wished he hadn't. Her eyes told him that she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would get them out of this, that he would save them. There was so much hope and trust in them, it nearly broke his heart because he honestly didn't think he could this time.

Last time, they hadn't been trapped in one spot, their position known to the subject. Last time, Sam hadn't been hit at the start. Last time, they knew the subjects' motives and could use that against them. Now? Sam had no idea. Was the sniper just in it for the thrill? To sow chaos? Or was there a specific target hidden amongst the staggering death toll? Without the answers to those questions, Sam had no way of knowing how long the sniper intended to watch from above and pick them off one by one. If Sam had to guess, though, he imagined the sniper was in it for the long haul; everyone in the square would be waiting for a long time. Which brought him to the crux of the matter: time.

Last time, it felt like they actually _had_ time. Time to stop and think, strategize and plan. Now, as the temperature only continued to climb, beading sweat on his brow, and as blood slipped out of his body, pooling on the pavement beneath him, hidden from view but not from his awareness, he knew they didn't have time. He was already finding it difficult to breathe, so he was fairly certain the bullet had damaged a lung, not to mention the fact that a rib or two was probably broken. And he could already feel himself weakening from blood loss. If the sniper stayed put in one of the surrounding buildings, it could take the SRU or whoever ran the scene _hours_ to locate the subject. And Sam knew he didn't have hours. In fact, he was pretty sure he had much less than two-hundred and fifty-six minutes before he was going to pass out with only questionable hope of ever regaining consciousness.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he realized he'd remained silent for too long and now Libby was looking at him with the beginnings of concern, but still with unshakable trust and hope.

 _Don't look at me like that, Libby,_ the small panicking part of him wanted to plead. _I'm not the hero you think I am, I'm only human and I don't think I'm going to make it out of this one._

 _No, you probably won't,_ his realistic side acknowledged, _but_ _ **she**_ _can. You can make damn well sure_ _ **she**_ _does._

With that realization, he finally gave her the answer she was looking for: a promise. One that he would spend every last breath he had making sure he fulfilled. "Yes, you're going to get out of here," he murmured confidently, hoping she would not notice his careful use of the word "you," not "we."

She nodded at his confirmation as if she'd expected nothing else, unaware of his word choice. "Right, we just have to wait for your team to get us out of here. It's fine, we'll be fine," she stated with false cheer, before her eyes darkened. "Just as long as we don't move, the sniper doesn't move and get an angle on us, and we don't die of heatstroke."

He huffed and rested his forehead on the searing pavement, tired of holding it upright. "That's the spirit. Your optimism never fails to astonish me."

Trying to avoid drawing Libby's attention, he lifted his torso off of the ground just enough to give his left hand clearance to shift underneath him in order to attempt to stem the flow of blood, then slowly lowered his body back down. When his hand pressed into his wound, however, he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from uttering a gasp; he could feel his ribs shift, broken ends grinding together from the pressure, a thousand jagged blades stabbing his core, confirming his earlier diagnosis. The sheer agony of the movement caught him off guard for a moment, a sharp departure from the state of calm the numbness had lulled his body into. The pain was intense but he relished it because it finally banished the last dregs of sluggishness. However, it also made it even more difficult to breathe. Desperate for oxygen, he opened his mouth wide, doing his best inhale air as silently as possible so as not to attract Libby's attention. Libby didn't need to know, Libby couldn't know. It would just freak her out.

Apparently he wasn't quiet enough, however, because moments later he heard a distant, "Sam?" from his right and a hand brushed the side of his face. "You with me?"

"I'm here," he reassured her, eyes closed and forehead still pressed into the concrete.

"I know you're here physically, but you weren't with me just a moment ago. You zoned out." Her voice held no accusation, only concern.

 _I have to tell her_. He couldn't keep it secret much longer—if for no other reason than soon, the blood pooling beneath him would begin to spread beyond his body and become visible—but he still didn't want to burden her with it. Didn't want her to frighten her. _Who are you kidding? She won't freak out,_ the rational side of him declared. _She's not a scared twelve-year-old anymore, and even if she were, her twelve-year-old self was a heck of a lot braver than most seasoned veterans you know. She can handle it. She will_ _ **have**_ _to handle it._

 _Okay, okay, you're right,_ he growled to himself, studiously ignoring the fact that talking to himself wasn't exactly a good sign, though he took it as a plus that he hadn't done it aloud yet. While the pain was excruciating, it gave him the focus he needed to pull everything together, to pull his mind back to the immediate task at hand. Pain he could deal with. Pain he could compartmentalize and work through. Would he regret it later? Probably. Then again, he wasn't exactly sure he would be around later to regret it, so…

He took a deep breath and collected himself, feeling somewhat balanced and in control for the first time since the shooting had started. Then, he let the breath out with a sigh. "Libby, I need to tell you something." _No going back now._

Silence. "Yeah?..." she asked hesitantly, tone laced with worry.

"W-we have a bit of a problem," he stuttered.

"Sam, that's the biggest understatement of the year! We have a _big_ problem, it's called being stuck in the middle of nowhere with only sixteen inches of concrete between us and certain death!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

"No, well, I mean yes, tha-that's a problem," he admitted. _Just say it. Just come out and say it._ "But we have another problem." He opened his eyes finally and turned his head to the side to look at her, still resting it on the ground.

Libby frowned, waiting, but just as he opened his mouth to answer her unasked question, her eyes were drawn by something near his torso. Sam followed her gaze to the small trail of red making its lazy way toward her.

He groaned. "Yeah, that's the other problem."


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N.** Once again, thank you for your fantastic response and encouragement. You all are amazing and it thrills me to know that you are enjoying the story! As always, sorry for the delay, but here's a fairly long chapter to make it up to you! Though I do leave you on a cliffie, sort of... oops.

Also, the reason Sam is "pretty sure he has less than two-hundred-fifty-six minutes left to live" as stated in the little synopsis and referenced in the story, is purely for the purpose of playing off of the double meaning of the title, "To the Power of Two." There's the math side of it—so everything in the synopsis is raised to the power of two (2*2 = 4, 4*4 = 16, 16*16 = 256)—and then there's the people side of it—Sam and Libby, to the power of two.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Libby moved so fast that one moment she was lying on the ground next to him, the next she cursed as she hovered over him. While staying low—conscious that their sphere of safety was small—she slipped her left arm under him and rolled him as far onto his back as she could, which meant he ended up partway on his side with his back pressed up against the concrete wall of the planter giving them shelter. His vision abandoned him for a moment as his damaged core adjusted to the shift, blinding him with an internal scream of protest. He managed to remain silent, however, which he counted as a win considering he felt like he'd just been stabbed.

When his vision returned, his field of view was filled with Libby, who kneeled over him, left hand pressed down on his own left hand, which he'd somehow managed to keep over his wound. Her face was a mask of anger, but Sam was pretty sure the anger wasn't directed at him.

"Dammit!" she swore vehemently. "Why the hell did you go and get yourself shot!?"

 _Scratch that, at least some of the anger is directed at me,_ he amended. He tried to reply, but just then she pushed down harder, stealing whatever breath he'd had.

"Don't answer that," she growled. "Save your breath."

 _I can't win,_ he mused ruefully, welcoming the brief distraction from their situation. From _his_ situation.

"Keep that pressure on," she ordered, lifting her hand temporarily in order to grab the light cotton jacket she had tied around her waist. It was over ninety degrees outside and her family had teased her mercilessly for bringing it, but she'd stubbornly refused to leave it behind, stating that the department stores were sure to be cold and she didn't want to freeze. At the time, Sam had smiled at the family dynamics, choosing to refrain from entering the debate, but he'd secretly thought her crazy as well. Now, he was glad she'd stood her ground. She wadded the jacket up into a ball and carefully shifted his hand out of the way in order to place the jacket over the wound, before putting his hand back on top, pressing down once more.

It was only then that Sam finally noticed something he would have realized much earlier, had he not been fighting an internal war: Libby was right-handed, but currently, her right arm merely dangled uselessly at her side. Not only that, she'd chosen to remove her left hand from placing pressure on his wound in order to extricate her jacket, rather than simply grab the jacket with her right hand. Something was wrong.

He caught Libby's eye when she finally looked at him and then pointedly glanced at her useless arm, eyebrow raised in a facial expression he'd stolen from her.

"Hey, thief!" she protested half-heartedly, apparently reading his mind and clearly attempting to steer the conversation away from her arm. "You don't get to use my secret weapon against me," she admonished, nodding to his face.

He only raised the other eyebrow to join the first, demanding an answer.

She grit her teeth and sighed. "You're even more stubborn than I am," she grumbled, before grinding out, "I think it's broken."

Sam frowned. He couldn't see any blood on it, which meant she hadn't been hit by a bullet, so that couldn't be the cause… then he recalled the " _snap_!" he'd heard earlier, when all a hundred-sixty odd pounds of him had dropped on top of her. _That would do it._

He closed his eyes in regret at the hurt he'd caused her and started to say, "I'm sor—," but got cut off.

"No! Don't you dare!" she hissed.

"I broke your arm!" he protested.

"No, you saved my life. Don't apologize for saving my life, Sam! You took a freaking bullet for me!"

He pried his eyes open to meet her gaze and shook his head.

She scowled. "What, you're gonna tell me that you didn't get shot because you pushed me out of the way? You just plain got shot?"

 _Well…_ he had nothing to say in response that wouldn't insult her intelligence, and he refused to do that.

"Uh-huh," she continued, unconvinced. "I'm not half as observant as you are—because let's face it, you're _scary_ at how many details you catch—but I think it'd be pretty hard to miss the fact that this psycho took headshots! So either he just randomly decided to hit you center mass while literally everyone else got it to the head, or more likely, he was aiming for me. I'm not stupid, I know that," she nodded to the hole in his chest, "is exactly where my head is when I stand next to you."

Her face softened and she continued more gently, "You don't have to protect me from every little thing anymore, Sam. You're still my hero and always will be; nothing can change that. You're stupidly brave and selfless and have no regard for your own safety, which are character traits that I both love and hate about you; they make you the incredible human being you are—and I am fully aware that I would be dead twice over if you were any different—but they're also what puts you in harms-way."

He was speechless for a moment, trying to keep up with everything and wrap his mind around what she was saying. When it sank in, he felt warm to his core in a way that had nothing to do with his fiery, pulsing wound. Swallowing, he managed a smile. "Thanks I think? That was definitely one of the more backhanded compliments I've ever gotten."

She blushed. "Shut up. Suffice to say I'd take a broken arm over a hole in my head any day. So thank you for being you."

"Agree t-to disagree," he muttered stubbornly. _I should have been more careful._

She rolled her eyes, all trace of softness gone and replaced by exasperation. "Oh, yes, I'm sure there was a way you could have both taken a bullet for me _and_ landed under me so my arm didn't break. Yeah, it seems pretty obvious you messed up and purposefully did the bare minimum when it came to saving my life." She paused and stared down at him, waiting. When he said nothing, she continued, "Do you hear the sarcasm in my voice? Because I'm channeling my inner sarcasm pretty hard. Or is the blood loss impairing your perception?"

He huffed. "I caught it, thanks."

"Good, consider the matter closed."

Sam gave up and chose instead to focus his energy on more immediately important matters, like getting the stabbing pain to stop and being able to breathe. His body hadn't been in the best of shape to begin with that morning—when he'd awakened, his body had been stiff and sore with an impressive tapestry of bruises covering his torso, speaking to several bruised ribs and more—and now... In his current position, half sandwiched between the ground and the wall at his back, the pressure on his ribcage made him feel like it was collapsing in on itself, like a cave slowly collapsing under the weight of a mountain. He knew it was mostly in his head—his ribcage wasn't _literally_ collapsing… yet—but that didn't make the reality any less worrying: he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Not only did his broken ribs stab into his side with every breath, making his inhales sharp and ragged, but he felt like his lungs had less and less room to expand and would soon have no room at all.

"Libby, I need to sit up," he admitted slowly, aware he wouldn't be able to do it on his own.

"What?!" she exclaimed. "That's crazy! You need to stay there and keep the pressure on!"

He locked eyes with her and decided to be perfectly honest. "I am having trouble breathing right now," he wheezed out, "and it's only going to get worse the longer I go without medical treatment and the longer I lie here. So while I can, I need to sit up because—" before he was able to finish, he was interrupted by a cough that he couldn't suppress. His chest seized at the violent, unexpected movement, and for a moment, it stopped moving. He could _not_ get his diaphragm to move to pull much needed oxygen into his lungs. The collapse that moments ago he'd felt was coming now suddenly seemed upon him and he was struggling, fighting, losing—

Then all of a sudden he was upright. The pressure did not disappear, but lessened significantly, and he drew in a gasping breath, all the while aware that Libby was whispering frantically, "Breathe, just breathe. Take a breath in and then let it out… please breathe, it's okay, you're going to be okay."

He listened to her voice, a gentle cadence and rhythm that sunk through the fog in his brain and gave him something to hold onto. Following her instructions, he took a slow breath in, then let it out. Then he took another. After several moments, his back now supported by the wall behind him, his breathing eased slightly. "Thanks," he murmured.

She nodded wordlessly and took a deep breath of her own, settling herself and letting the panic that had gripped her the moment Sam stopped breathing, dissipate.

They sat in silence for a moment, but once he was no longer under the immediate risk of passing out, Sam turned his attention to getting Libby the hell out of there.

"Libby, I need you to grab my phone out of my pocket," he ordered. "I'm sure they're already on their way, but we need to see if we can get in touch with SRU…."

The last people he wanted to call were his team—he was positive all of them were still livid—but he would do anything to help Libby, even ignore his hurt and fear of being further ostracized by them. Then it occurred to him that he wouldn't even need to talk to his team, as they weren't on rotation. _Small mercies,_ he thought to himself, though he almost wished they _were_ on call. They were the best, and no matter how angry they were with him, he knew they would put that aside to get the job done.

Libby hesitated, before pursing her lips and returning his order with one of her own. "Okay, I'm removing my hand which means you need to keep that pressure on yourself."

He nodded dutifully and she lifted her hand, moved it to his pocket and pulled out his phone. Her face told him what was wrong even before she turned it around to show him the shattered, lifeless screen.

"Dammit!" He slammed his head back against the wall in frustration as yet another thing didn't go their way.

"Hey! It's not that big of a deal!" Libby argued, dropping his useless phone to the ground and placing her hand on his chest again, trying to calm him down. "Like you said, I'm sure tons of other people have already called them! And look!" she jerked her chin towards the edge of the square. "The cops are already here."

He followed her gaze and saw authorities setting up a perimeter, staying as far away from the plaza as possible. _Yes, they're here, but they have no idea where the shooter is and probably none of the witnesses will be any help narrowing it down._ Witnesses were notoriously inaccurate and contradictive, but it was pointless to argue with Libby since they had no phone and no way to access one. Sam couldn't help a small grimace of a smile as a thought occurred to him. _At least Ed can't yell at me for not having my phone on me this time._ Then his thoughts turned darker and he scowled. _But given his attitude towards me right now, he'll probably yell at me for breaking it, even if it happened when I saved Libby's life._

They lapsed into silence. With nothing to distract him, Sam found himself rapidly losing the battle of wills he was waging; the inexorable blood loss slowly gaining the upper hand. He couldn't help but notice that Libby's jacket was already almost soaked through, that his hand was bloody enough that droplets dripped from his fingertips onto his already saturated shirt, that every breath he took made him feel worse and that soon he'd probably be drowning in his own blood. Literally. The external bleeding was slowing due to the pressure Libby was exerting—so long as he didn't move and break up the miniscule amount of clotting that had occurred—but there wasn't a damn thing they could do about internal bleeding. Not here, anyway. And Sam was sure he was bleeding internally. The longer he lay there, the more useless he became and the less chance he had of keeping his promise to Libby.

 _Don't go down that road, Sam,_ he chastised himself. _That's not going to lead you anywhere positive or productive._

He needed something to take his mind off of his own predicament, something to ground him. So he searched the plaza desperately for something, anything, and his eyes settled on the father and child hunkered down not too far away from them. The child stared back at him, face streaked with tears, eyes wide and scared. The father held her close, his arms encircling her small frame as if his love would be enough to protect her from all the atrocities around them. From everything that was to come.

As he stared at the pair clinging to each other, he distantly heard a voice projected into the square by a megaphone, instructing occupants to call a number set up for them. _If only we had a phone…_

The sun beating down on them made him sweat, but the hot pavement beneath them seemed to suck his energy away with each passing minute, pulsing in time with the throbbing aches that wracked his body. The blare of the megaphone became a background buzz, a comforting distraction as the heat lulled him and made his eyes feel heavy, and he wondered briefly if he closed his eyes, what would happen?

"SAM!"

A voice shouted in his ear, jolting him back to reality as he snapped his eyes open. It disturbed him that he hadn't ever felt them close, had only thought about it.

"Don't do that. Don't zone out on me!" Libby yelled, shaking him gently.

He drew in a breath to center himself and muttered an apology, reaching his right hand up to clasp her uninjured forearm, a gesture less to comfort than to express that he was still there.

"It's okay," she whispered, blinking her eyes rapidly. "Just don't do it again. Promise?"

He couldn't make that promise and instead remained silent, turning his attention back to the situation at hand. _Things need to change,_ _ **fast**_ _, and not just for my sake._ As hot as it was, no one was going to be in good condition if this went on for too much longer, and the younger people such as the child and Libby would be hit hardest. And, for all he knew Libby could go into shock due to her injured arm, especially if she damaged it further while moving it around in order to take care of him.

"We need a phone," he murmured, unable to stop himself from shifting slightly in agitation at his inability to do anything.

"Sam just let it go! You're working yourself up over something we can't change! Other people have called them! The cops are already here! Let someone else be the hero this time!"

"Sure other people have called, but I doubt any of those other people have a clue as to where the sniper is!" he snapped, temper fraying. He regretted it immediately; Libby didn't need his harsh words. It wasn't her fault, she was just trying to look out for him. He looked up at her, prepared to apologize, but stopped when he saw her face.

Libby didn't look hurt by his outburst, instead she looked almost… hopeful. "Are you saying you know where he is, more so than just somewhere on the opposite side of this wall?"

Sam bit his lip as a rib shifted ever so slightly inside him, before drawing in a shaky breath. "Yes, I have a pretty good idea of where he is. Either the tan building or the steel-gray one with the arched front. Twentieth floor or up. Don't!" he hissed sharply as Libby instinctively turned to look at the buildings in question.

She whipped back around with a sheepish look on her face, which quickly morphed to amazement. "How the hell do you know that?"

He hesitated before stating bluntly, "I watched how people fell and felt how I was hit. That gave me a pretty good idea, but it's only an estimate and to be honest, something seems a little off about how it all went down… but I can't quite put my finger on what. Either way, the SRU should know."

"But you think you know where the shooter is."

"Yeah."

"Which means if you're right, the SRU won't have to spend as much time narrowing it down themselves and searching every building, which means we won't be here as long, which means you'll get to a hospital sooner… Which means we need a phone." Her resolve shone in her eyes, before she dropped his gaze and turned to stare out into the square.

She met eyes with the father and daughter and mimed making a call, asking if he had one. The man wearily shook his head. She cursed under her breath before continuing to scan the plaza, then all of a sudden she froze.

He followed her gaze to where her bag sat on the ground from when she'd dropped it in the chaos, about ten feet from their current position.

It wasn't hard to connect the dots. "No!" he exclaimed vehemently.

"Sam, we need a phone and that's the closest one."

"It might be broken!"

"True, but it's our only chance."

"Then I'll get it!"

"Don't be stupid. You've been shot. You move and all of the clotting that's happened goes to waste and you bleed out sooner." She gazed earnestly at him. "You've already saved my life today, it's my turn to try to do the same for you."

And before he could do anything to stop her, she darted out into the plaza, out of their sphere of safety. It was only ten feet, but ten feet might as well have been a mile. If the sniper was looking this direction… Sam needed a distraction. He needed to throw something, make some other sort of movement that would draw the sniper's eye.

Gritting his teeth, he bent his knee, jerked his foot towards him and seized the one shoe still left on his foot—absentmindedly, he realized the other must have come off in the scramble. Shoe in hand, he looked up and watched as Libby reached her bag, snatched it up, and turned around, eyes finding his as she sprinted back to him. But no matter how fast she moved, she still had ten feet to cover. Ten feet. A mere few seconds, but those seconds had her in the middle of the square, completely exposed to the shot of a gun.

Desperately, he hurled the shoe high in the air and towards her, and had to laugh in dismay at his effort; what was a shoe compared to a five-foot tall person running like mad? Nothing. It probably wouldn't do anything, but he hoped… he hoped it might flash across the sniper's scope or out of the corner of his eye and makes him hesitate just a breath, because a breath was all Libby needed to make it the last few steps back to him…

A deafening "BANG!" ricocheted throughout the square.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** Sorry, not sorry. Hope you enjoyed!

Also, Libby's jacket is not just for convenience's sake, it's actually how I feel in the summer and what I do.


	10. Chapter 10

**A.N.** Well, I absolutely did not intend to leave you all hanging that long... good heavens. A simple apology seems totally inadequate, but know that you do indeed have my deepest apologies! But as promised, I am not abandoning this story and finally feel like I have the motivation and time to once again dive into this saga and resume more regular updates! I'm going to shoot for bi-weekly, and by golly I am going to stick to that as best I can!

Thank you all for your patience and for prodding me to continue! I hope this chapter lives up to expectations! I won't say I hope it was worth the wait, because let's face it... five months is a loooong time... Anyway, enjoy!

.

.

.

.

* * *

The moment Wordy realized Sam was in the square, he yanked his phone out of his pocket and started dialing. Ed didn't need to see the screen to know who he was calling. Several anxious seconds passed before Wordy ended the call and looked up to shake his head at Ed. "Must have lost it in the chaos," he murmured quietly, staring out at their friend and teammate caught in the middle of yet another hellish situation.

Ed clenched his jaw, frustrated with everything and everyone: Sam, the heat, the sniper toying with everyone… he felt like this day couldn't get worse, but wasn't going to tempt fate by voicing it aloud; with their luck, things were going to go downhill before they got better.

Ed was pulled from his thoughts when Wordy exclaimed vehemently, "We've gotta find a way to talk to him! I know it's a lot to ask, but maybe he saw something, Ed. Maybe he can tell us something that will end this call… God I have to hope for that." Without another word, he began sprinting back towards the command post.

Ed quickly followed, though he wasn't as convinced as Wordy that Sam would be able to share some piece of intel that would drastically change the situation. He could only imagine the panic that had descended upon the square the moment the first shots rang out, and it seemed impossible that anyone would have been able to make sense of the chaos. And he was even more doubtful of Sam after his poor judgement yesterday… Ed honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to put lives in Sam's hands again.

Ed caught up with Wordy just as he burst through the doors of command. "Troy!" Wordy yelled somewhat breathlessly, halting as he finally reached the Sergeant who still stood in a sea of officers and consultants.

"Wordy, Ed," Troy acknowledged, "any luck with those witnesses?"

"Not exactly," Wordy replied, "but we've got a lead on the best witness you'll ever get—" Ed bit his tongue, holding back his words of caution for now—"Only problem is, he's trapped in the middle of the square and doesn't have a phone, so we need to work on getting a line of communication open with him a.s.a.p."

Troy frowned. "How do you know my best witness is in the square? Did someone call in?"

Wordy shook his head. "No, this witness hasn't called in yet, but I know he's our best shot because it's Sam."

"WHAT?!" a voice exploded in disbelief from somewhere behind them. A suspiciously familiar voice that belonged to someone who Ed knew should absolutely _not_ be there.

Whirling around, Ed's eyes landed on none other than Spike, who sat behind a bank of computer monitors.

"Spike? What the hell are you doing here!?" Ed yelled, concern flaring up in him and making his voice harsh.

"What the hell am I doing here? My job! The real question is what the hell is Sam doing in _there!_ "

Ed ignored that last part and started marching towards the Italian. "You're supposed to be in the hospital! And why the hell isn't your arm in a sling!"

Spike glanced down at his left shoulder and shrugged with his right. "Eh, it's not that bad. I checked myself out and was on my way home when I heard about this situation and came straight here. I'm the best techie they've got, after all," he stated, a small smile slipping onto his face, despite the dire situation.

Ed closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself for not realizing sooner. He should have realized the moment Troy deliberately left the techie's name out of it and only called the techie 'the best,' because the Sergeant had most likely known Ed would have demanded to speak with Spike earlier if he'd known his friend was here. Opening his eyes he turned to Troy, demanding an answer, but the Sergeant only gave him an unapologetic shrug. Growling in frustration, Ed returned his gaze to Spike and pinned his teammate with an iron glare. "You should be back in the hospital; leave this to us."

"I need to be here, especially if Sam's here!"

Ed narrowed his eyes. "Spike, get back to the god damn hospital."

"No. The wound is practically just a scratch and only a minor discomfort. I'll live."

"No thanks to Sam!" Ed bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

Spike stared at him, a confused frown slipping onto his face. "What are you talking about?"

"What the hell do you mean, 'what am I talking about?!'" Ed demanded in outraged disbelief, and was about to continue his tirade when a sharp voice stopped him.

"Gentlemen!" Troy cut in. "Whatever this is, save it and shelve it! We have more important matters to deal with right now!"

Ed snapped his mouth shut and glared at the Italian, who continued to stare at him in confusion, until Troy prompted, "Spike, let's start working on a way to get in touch with Braddock; Wordy's right that he's our best shot right now, unless you've had any luck pinpointing the shooter from the video Ed provided?"

Galvanized into action, Spike started typing, a little slower than his usual lightning-like speed due to his injured shoulder. "Not yet," he admitted in frustration, "but I'm working on it, I just need more to go on. There are so many angles to consider, not to mention how many buildings rim the plaza! We know the subject's somewhere on the northern side just because of how people are sheltering, but do you know how many buildings are on the north side? Too many! Searching all of them will take hours and those people don't have hours."

Troy sighed. "Keep at it and let me know as soon as you have anything."

Spike nodded in affirmative.

"In the meantime, let's get a Sierra going now that we have at least a general idea. Rivers," he locked eyes with someone just over Ed's shoulder, and Ed turned to see Team Four's Lead had arrived unnoticed at some point, "set someone up on the south side of the square, get them scanning the windows on the north. We've gotta start somewhere."

Rivers nodded. "I'll put Carsen on it."

"If you want another set of eyes," Ed offered, "Jules Callaghan is on scene and could set up as Sierra Two." _She's going to tear me a new one when she finds out I offered her as Two, not One,_ he chuckled to himself silently. If it was Team One's scene, he wouldn't have hesitated to make Jules Sierra One, but he wasn't in charge and it was Team Four's scene.

Rivers smiled at Ed. "I appreciate the input. It's a good call." He switched channels as he proceeded further into the space and passed Ed. "Carsen, I need you as Sierra One. Pick a building on the south and go high. Start looking for the subject as best you can, and find Callaghan and coordinate with her; she's Sierra Two."

When Rivers reached the table Troy was leaning over, the Sergeant reached over and clasped his shoulder. "What's the status of the evacuation of the surrounding buildings?"

"Moving along, but still in progress. We've got unis and firefighters assisting, but there are just too many buildings and people. It won't be complete for another hour at least."

Ed approached the table and looked down at the city planning maps as Rivers continued to update his boss. As Ed listened, he flashed back to when Rivers had been on Team One while Sam recovered after the hostage situation at the Oakes three years ago. During that time, Ed had grown to respect the man's skills as both a negotiator and tactician. Rivers had returned to Team Four once Sam was back to full strength, and Ed had been happy to hear a little over a year ago that he'd made Team Lead. Ed liked Rivers and was glad he was there; he was well known for his ability to keep a calm and collected attitude even in high pressure situations, and everyone could use a little calm given the severity of this call. In fact, as Ed thought about it, he realized he'd rarely heard Rivers truly raise his voice and shout, and he doubted he would today.

"Ed," Rivers turned to him, pulling him from his thoughts, "it's far too hot in that square and pretty soon we're going to be dealing with hostages succumbing to the heat if we can't get them out of there. Without neutralizing the subject, do you think there's any possibility that we could extract people? Using ballistic shields, perhaps? I think it's a long shot and too risky, but I'd appreciate your opin—"

A deafening " **BANG!"** cut Rivers off midsentence and everyone flinched.

"Talk to me people!" Troy yelled, whirling to face the square. "What was that?"

A long silence met his query, before finally a radio crackled to life. "Uh, someone just made a break for it."

Troy grimaced. "Casualties?"

There was a brief pause, before, "No. No casualties. She made it back, but only because she wasn't trying to reach the edge of the plaza."

Ed frowned and met eyes with Troy, trying to understand. "Come again? What do you mean?"

"This young woman just darted out and grabbed a bag, then darted back to her hiding place. The shooter got a shot off, but it went way wide. You'll never believe this, but the person she's hiding with threw a shoe of all things into the air as a distraction," the voice on the radio explained in disbelief. "Can you believe that? A shoe! What an idiot! There's no way it made a difference, the girl just got damn lucky."

Ed wasn't so sure. Yes, it seemed highly unlikely that a tiny object like a shoe could make any sort of difference, but he knew from experience that even the smallest of things flashing across one's scope as one pulled the trigger could change everything—his mind went back to when a person crossed his own scope as he fired and he couldn't suppress an involuntary shudder. The odds seemed astronomical, but Ed was pretty sure that the so called 'idiot' had saved the young woman's life.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

"YOU IDIOT!" Libby screamed as she crashed back onto the ground beside Sam, face red not only from running, but from anger. "You're an absolute imbecilic dolt!"

The object of her ire, Sam, could only gaze at her in wonder, thrilled that she had breath in her lungs enough to yell at him and wasn't lying on the hot pavement with bullet to the brain, lifeless. Knowing she'd made it without harm was almost enough to help him ignore the fact that newfound agony had erupted in his chest and that blood was once more rapidly exiting his body and coursing down his chest. Almost, but not quite. _That definitely cost me more than I would have liked,_ he admitted to himself, unable to hide a grimace of pain, which did not escape Libby's gaze.

"I can't believe you did that, Sam! You just undid any good that my jacket was doing and probably hurt yourself further because you had to be a damn hero, but you're still looking at me like you don't care because your stupid, ill-advised plan worked!"

"S-s-sor," he tried to apologize, gasping for air that didn't want to enter his lungs. Dark spots crept from the corners of his vision, threatening to swallow Libby and send him far from her reaches.

"Stop apologizing, dammit!" she shouted, eyes blazing. "Just focus on breathing," she ordered him, apparently aware of his struggle, "because I didn't just get shot at and you didn't just save my life _again_ only to have you pass out on me when we finally have a way to contact the outside world!" She held up her phone triumphantly—screen still intact, fully functioning—before setting it down and reaching out with her good hand to gently clasp his face.

Sam's vision started tunneling, but he tried to latch onto the contact she provided until all he could see was Libby… everything else just disappeared and it was suddenly only the two of them. Her eyes caught his attention; where moments ago they'd been alive with fiery anger, now they'd cooled and he saw only a pool of calm confidence and trust, no fear.

"Sam," Libby murmured, voice just loud enough to carry to his ears over his own rattling breaths. "Sam, I need you to breathe," she told him. "I know it hurts and there's nothing I can do about it, and that kills me, but I need you to breathe."

She took an exaggerated slow breath in and let it out, clearly asking him to follow her lead. He tried.

"Because," she continued, "it's not all on you like it was three years ago."

Another breath.

"We have to do this together this time."

 _Breathe._

"You don't need to do it alone, and I can't do this by myself. So what do you say? We a team? The two of us?" she whispered.

Sam closed his eyes and poured every shred of willpower he had left into evening out his breathing. _Slow it down, Sam._ He took a shallow, shuddering breath in. _Time is not your friend today._ He was all too aware that seconds and minutes were slipping through his fingers—Libby was right, his reckless throw had done him no favors and had turned the slow trickle of sand in his imaginary hourglass into a flood… time would soon be gone. _You can't control time, but you can control your breathing. Slow it down. One breath in… one breath out._ The oxygen helped clear his head, helped focus him. _You have to keep your promise to Libby, and you can only do that if you can breathe._ Two more breaths.

He reached a hand up to clasp Libby's and gently pulled it away from his face, then slowly opened his eyes. "Okay," he agreed, voice low but steady. He squeezed her hand. "Okay, let's do this together. The two of us."

A heartbreaking smile slipped across her face, before she disentangled her hand and picked up her phone from where she'd left it on the ground. She dialed the number they'd heard earlier, the hotline set up for people in the square, then put the phone back on the ground on speaker. "Right, we're a team," she stated confidently as they heard the first ring and she gently placed her hand back over the jacket still on his chest and pressed down carefully, watching to make sure she didn't cause him to stop breathing again. "Which means I'll keep you from bleeding out, and you work your magic and tell people where that shooter is so we can all get out of here."

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** Hey look! It's not a cliffie!


	11. Chapter 11

**A.N.** Happy New Year everyone! I meant for this to be a holiday gift, but illness and actually FF itself (was giving me serious trouble with formatting) prevented that. Ah well!

I have resolved not to make any more promises as to the timing of my updates, because clearly I am terribly terrible at keeping them. But I shall endeavor to try to improve my updating and improve the speed of it. And I'm cautiously optimistic, as I have quite a few more chapters lined up (though they still need tweaking) that I've been working on furiously for the past few weeks.

Thank you to all of you for not giving up on this story, for continuing to pester and prod and ask for updates. You all are what's kept me coming back to this story!

This chapter is a little slow because we're getting some more information about the situation, and we're also getting a bit of an outside perspective on the current dysfunctional dynamics of Team One. But the bonus is that it's longer! My longest chapter yet, in fact. And it doesn't leave you on a cliff-hangar really, so that's good I guess?

This chapter takes place from the POV of a character first briefly introduced in the epilogue of Timing, and re-introduced last chapter.

.

.

.

.

* * *

As Jack Rivers stared at the map of the square, markers placed to show the location of all of the hostages, he grimaced. _Damn, Braddock, you sure haven't made this easy on us,_ he thought uncharitably, wondering how in the world they were supposed to get in contact with the SRU Officer. But the thought was a fleeting one, followed immediately by him chastising himself, _Right, like he deliberately chose to be smack in the middle of the square with an active shooter staring down at him. Give the man a break, he certainly deserves one._ Jack had never really spent much time with Braddock—in fact he hadn't even met the man before taking over his position on Team One while Braddock recovered from the Oakes incident—but Jack had great respect for the other SRU Officer. He'd heard of the man's scary accurate shooting and solid tactical plans, and how well he'd handled himself while operating solo and trying to keep a twelve-year-old safe while saving fifteen other hostages. Not to mention the numerous times since then that Braddock had stepped up to the plate and saved the day when Team One had a difficult call.

But more importantly, while working with Team One, Jack had seen how close they were and how much the other members of it were fiercely protective of Braddock and supported and respected him. Team One's respect was not easily earned, therefore when it was given, there was a damn good reason for it.

So even if Jack had heard nothing of Braddock's abilities—which he had—and even if Braddock hadn't gone out of his way after his recovery to thank Jack for watching his team's back—which again, he had—Jack would have thought well of the man because of his teammates' obvious high regard. However, while Jack himself considered Braddock to be an incredible asset to the SRU and felt concern for his safety, he was beginning to doubt if the entirety of Team One still felt the same way, which was a significant shock. Given that Braddock was in such a perilous situation, Jack had expected to see Team One's protective instincts and concern roar to the surface—and in fact he'd been almost counting on it, hoping that their passion would help the operation. Much to Jack's confusion, however, that respect and care seemed to be wavering, at least among some members. Ed had been the most open about it by getting into a shouting match dissing Braddock, but Wordy also seemed a little distant and uncertain. Even Jules had apparently reacted with "weird vibes," according to Carsen, who had reported back to Jack after locating Callaghan to move into their Sierra positions. Normally Carsen would not have shared such information, but Team One's close knit dynamic was legendary, therefore any change was something worth noting.

As for the rest of Team One, Jack knew that Greg was not on the scene, so the only member of Team One who he knew for sure was still on Braddock's side and who seemed genuinely worried, was Spike.

Jack wasn't sure why the sudden change in team dynamics, but he wondered if it had anything to do with the hot call Team One had been sent out to yesterday. Details were scarce and sketchy, but he knew things had gone badly sideways and Spike had been injured.

 _Then again,_ he thought to himself, _if it truly were the incident yesterday that caused several members of Team One to turn on one of their own—or at least lose confidence in him—wouldn't Spike be the one most likely to be angry at Braddock? Because he was injured? And instead, he seems to be Braddock's staunchest defender right now._ Without more information, Jack knew he would not get to the bottom of this mystery, he just hoped the weird dynamics among Team One would not negatively affect the hot call. He was pretty sure they wouldn't, as the members of Team One were professionals, but he vowed to keep an eye on them—Ed in particular—all the same. He turned his attention back to the crowd just as Troy spoke once more.

"Okay everyone, I need all of you to put your heads together and figure out how we get a line of communication open to Braddock!" he called out to the group of people surrounding him. "Whatever we have to do, let's get it done. Hell, if we have to resort to hand signals, figure out a system and find a way to get Braddock's attention. At least it would be something. But whatever we do, it has to be subtle. I do not want to paint a target on Braddock's back! So far it seems like the subject's staying put, but if we start making it clear that we're talking to someone in the square, he might get antsy and realize if he moves only a few floors up or a few rooms over, he'll be able to get a clean shot off."

As soon as Troy stopped speaking, Jack shifted forward just enough to catch his Sergeant's attention. When Toy met his gaze, Jack jerked his head to the left, indicating he wanted a private word. Troy nodded and started to make his way towards Jack. Turning and stepping to the side, Jack reached out and caught Ed's elbow and indicated he wanted the other Team Lead to follow him.

When he reached a slightly quieter, less crowded space in the large room, he turned to find both Troy and Ed behind him, waiting for him to explain.

Clearing his throat, he stated, "Something feels really off to me about this whole situation. At first glance, everything points to a random act of violence. A mass shooting with no objective except chaos and terror. But the longer I look at and think about it, I think there's a lot more to it."

He'd been hesitant to share what amounted to a hunch, but when neither Ed nor Troy gave him disbelieving looks, and instead seemed to nod and agree with him, relief coursed through him.

"Go on," Troy encouraged. "What makes you think that?"

"It all boils down to the fact that I keep asking myself the same question… why is the subject still here?"

Ed nodded. "I've been asking myself the same, and was even beginning to wonder if the subject had fled, until that shot just minutes ago quelled those thoughts."

Troy frowned thoughtfully. "Of course, there have been past situations where the shooter _does_ stick around," he pointed out, "particularly when they are in a sniper position, as this one is."

"True," Jack conceded, "which is why this is mostly a gut feeling."

Ed stared at him, calculating. "I don't think it is, Jack. Give yourself some credit," the other Team Lead clasped him on the shoulder. "You've got a sharp eye and a quick mind, which means that if you have a feeling, it's because you saw something or have connected the dots between things, connections maybe we've missed. Which makes it more than just a feeling."

Bolstered by the other man's support, Jack considered what _exactly_ was causing him to feel like something was off. "I know we're working off of very little when it comes to profiling the subject and figuring out the motivation, however, I don't think this lines up with a 'typical' mass shooting. There's too much that doesn't fit, starting with the target: why this square? When it comes to public places in Toronto, I can think of at least four similar locations that are higher profile and have a lot more people in them. While twelve fatalities is a lot, this could have been a hell of a lot worse if the subject had chosen one of those other places, or if the subject had settled for anything less than headshots."

"Yeah, the headshots and no injuries—only fatalities—is pretty unusual," Troy murmured. "Why only go for the hardest shot?"

"Exactly," Jack agreed. "It's easier to go for center mass, especially when people start running, but he stuck with headshots. And as far as we know, his only miss was when that girl grabbed the bag. That tells me that not only is he highly trained, careful and calculated, he's confident in his ability to make those shots on moving targets and—more importantly—chose to prioritize a small number of kills over a larger number of casualties. So why? Add to that the fact that he's sticking around even though right now there are no targets. Which means he's playing the long game, waiting for the hostages' patience to run out and for them to make a run for it, but that seems like it has a pretty low probability of success, because there's an ever increasing risk of capture the longer the shooter sticks around. He _has_ to know that. In fact, he probably hasn't moved because he's trying to minimize exposure, but it still seems like an unacceptably high risk, unless there's another motivation than just sewing violence and chaos…" Jack didn't complete his thought aloud, waiting to see if the other two men would come to the same conclusion he had.

Ed got it first, eyes lighting with comprehension. "Damn… You think there's a target still in the square."

Jack let out a breath and nodded. "But I have no proof of that, and if anything, the profile I just described would seem to suggest that would be impossible. If he's as calculated and skilled as we think he is, how in the world could he not have taken out his target already?"

"It's not impossible," Ed stated slowly, clearly gathering his thoughts. "If the entire motivation for this shooting was to take out a particular target, the subject went to a lot of trouble to mask it as a random act. If he went to that much trouble to conceal a targeted murder, he might have deliberately chosen not to shoot his target first. Because where does law enforcement look first when trying to make sense of a shooting? The first victims. And the profile you just described shows the subject's confident. Maybe he was overconfident, thought he could handle hitting his target after the panic started, and couldn't."

Troy let out a long breath. "Well, if that's true, this whole situation just got a whole hell of a lot more complicated, but this might be what we need to get ahead of things. Let's run it down, see what we can find out. If you're right, the subject would have had to know the target would be here. I'll have Scarlatti run down the victims' and hostages' names, get my people talking to family and friends, see if we can figure out who was scheduled to be here."

The trio rejoined the central effort, Troy instructing several officers to begin working on contacting victims and tracing their days.

Just then, a police officer raced up to Troy, slightly breathless. "Sir!" she greeted. "Sir, I have someone who claims to be an SRU officer calling through the line setup for the people in the square! His badge number checks out and he's asking to speak to the person in charge."

The room erupted in a flurry of commotion as people exclaimed in shock and shouted demands, many crowding around Troy, eager to hear Braddock's report.

"Everyone quiet! If you've been assigned a task, get back to it and double down! If you have not been assigned a task, find someone to give you one! When I have information that you need to know, I will ensure that you have it!"

Reluctantly, the crowd dispersed, leaving only Troy, Ed, Wordy and Jack with the officer who had first reported Braddock's contact. The group moved to Spike's makeshift tech center.

"Constable Scarlatti, can you work with Officer Brigg here to get Braddock's call on channel two, please?" Troy requested.

Spike nodded quickly, immediately beginning a quick conversation with the police officer, before finally turning to the small group. "He's patched through, channel two."

As one, they all turned their radios to the appropriate channel.

"This is Sergeant Troy Westin, whom am I speaking with?"

A harsh sound echoed over the radio, causing the group to wince. Whether it was a sigh of relief or exhaustion or something else, Jack couldn't tell.

"Sergeant Westin, thank God," Braddock's voice reverberated in their ears. "I was starting to worry they weren't going to put me through. This is Sam Braddock, SRU badge number 8302, and it is damn good to hear your voice, sir."

The man's voice sounded strained and distant to Jack's ears, and he frowned, worried at the bad quality of the call. _Cell towers are probably overloaded. Let's hope we don't lose the connection._ That would be just their luck.

Troy smiled. "Not as good as it is to hear yours, Braddock, though I admit it's a little hard to hear you. It's probably the connection, but is there anything you can do on your end?"

They waited in silence a moment, listening as muffled noise came over the line, before Braddock's voice came through more loudly, though still strained. "Is that better?"

"It is, Braddock, now how are you doing? Can you give us a situation report?"

"I'm with another person, Libby Riles, and we're safe for the moment, but I'm not sure how long that's going to last." A pause. "I'm honestly surprised the subject hasn't moved to get a better angle, yet."

 _So Braddock's noticed, too._

"Understood. I know it's a lot to ask, but can you give us any information on the subject? Witnesses out here are all over the place, claiming everything from that there was an actual gunman in the square, to that there was a grenade launcher shooting at them from on high. I'm sure it was hell when the shooting began, and I don't want to put any pressure on your shoulders—you've got enough of that right now—but anything you can give us will be helpful. You've had a lot more experience with these sorts of things than a typical civilian witness, so I'm not expecting you to know exactly where the shooter is—"

"I do," Braddock interrupted, "that's why I'm calling."

Troy's mouth snapped shut then opened partway for a moment, no words coming out, before he managed, "Excuse me? You're saying you know where the subject is?"

"Well, not _precisely,_ but I have it narrowed down to two buildings and about six floors," the other man explained.

Jack was impressed, and he could tell his Sergeant was, too. But just as Troy prepared to respond, something caught his eye.

Jack turned slightly in the direction of Troy's gaze just in time to see Ed shift minutely, eyes narrowed. Stepping forward, Jack tried to catch the other man's attention and head him off before he took whatever action was in his head, but he was too late.

Ed frowned and snapped into the radio, "How the hell do you have it narrowed down that far, Sam? Are you playing god, again? Spike's been working on this with all of his technology and hasn't been able to figure it out, and you think you, just one person, can? Confident that you know best? Who's going to get hurt this time? Are you—"

"Constable Lane!" Troy roared. "Verbally assaulting Constable Braddock is neither productive nor helpful!"

Ed blinked, clearly taken aback by Troy's strong outburst. He crossed his arms in response, clearly unrepentant, but did not speak further.

Troy directed his attention back to the one person in this situation who might be able to break the case open. "Please continue, Braddock."

The blonde's voice was significantly more guarded when he next spoke. "Ed is there?"

Ed opened his mouth to reply, but Troy held up a hand, stopping him.

"What?!" a muffled but clearly angry shout crackled through the line, most likely coming from someone near Braddock—Libby Riles, if Jack were to guess. "Ed?! Gimme that fricking phone!" There were more muffled scuffling noises, before the line finally went quiet.

"Braddock?" Troy queried cautiously. "You still with me?"

"Yes," came the other man's robotic reply.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine."

Jack met Troy's eyes, both men recognizing the sudden shift in Braddock's monosyllabic replies, how distant the man sounded now, which had nothing to do with the poor connection.

"Lane is here assisting with the call. A lot of people came in even though it's their day off," Troy explained, deliberately not specifying who the 'a lot of people' were.

"I see."

Troy grit his teeth and temporarily switched off his radio, before turning to Jack. "Jack, could you please continue this conversation with Constable Braddock in private. Scarlatti," Troy nodded at the techie, "make it happen."

Within moments, Spike was handing Jack a cell phone, mouth set in a worried line, clearly biting his lips in order to prevent himself from saying anything.

As Jack walked away from the group in order to gain some privacy, he heard his Sergeant continue with a steely voice, "I don't know what is going on between you and your team, Lane, but if you can't put it aside, I'm going to have to remove you from this call. Maybe Braddock doesn't know _exactly_ where the subject is, but whatever intel he has is a hell of a lot more than the squat that we're working with right now!"

Once he could no longer hear Troy's voice, Jack pulled the phone to his ear. "Hey Braddock, this is Jack Rivers. We're on a private line, now. I figured that might be easier for you rather than being interrogated by all of us."

He heard a harsh sound crackle through the line; they both knew what he'd just said was mostly a lie.

"H-hey Rivers," Sam greeted, a little warmth creeping back into his voice, which seemed to be growing ever more shaky, "I ap-preciate it. And please, just call me Sam."

"Okay deal, so long as you return the favor and call me Jack. We haven't spent a lot of time together, but I still feel like I know you, but let's try to fix that after today, huh? Sound good?"

A short laugh. "Deal, Jack, so long as it does _not_ involve any type of peril."

Jack was pleased to hear Sam opening up again. "I think I can manage that. Now what can you tell me about the subject and the first few minutes?"

There was a long pause before Sam finally sighed. "You know, Ed has a point… There was a lot h-happening and if Spike hasn't been able to figure it out yet, with all of those crazy algorithms he has…"

 _Dammit, Ed,_ Jack growled to himself, _is this how you treat your friends and team members? Is this what you wanted? Self-doubt?_

Aloud, he stopped Sam before the other man could get rolling. "Hey, no, stop it. Spike wasn't there when it all went down and neither was Ed. They weren't seeing the angles and watching things unfold. _You_ were. And you've been in enough fire fights to be able to come away with solid intel, not just some gibberish conjecture. Give yourself some credit, man."

Jack stopped there, afraid that if he said more, Sam would shut down.

He heard Sam take in a breath, but what he next heard was not Sam's voice, but someone else's.

"Samuel I-don't-know-your-middle-name-and-we-need-to-fix-that-so-I-can-properly-yell-at-you-Braddock, you had better listen to what that smart man has to tell you, because he's right and you're being an idiot." Her voice faded for a moment as she turned to muttering. He thought he caught something about it being the 'flood moss' that was doing the talking, which struck him as odd, but he quickly put it out of his mind as she continued, "Ed has no right to second guess you! You are a _damn_ good cop and an even _better_ human being, and you're not only _a_ hero—which you are—but you are _my_ hero, so pull your head out of the sand and stop doubting yourself and tell the smart man what he needs to know so we can get out of here!"

Jack could only assume that this was once again Libby speaking, and that her voice had suddenly become clear because she'd gotten up in Sam's face. As he listened, he couldn't help but cheer her on.

Sam sighed. "My assessment is that the subject is either in the tan building on the north side, or the steel-gray one with the arched front, above the twentieth floor but below the roof. I can't be any more specific than that, and to be honest, something feels a little off about it."

Jack let out a breath, _Damn, if he's right, he's good._ He'd been expecting Sam to be able to narrow it down, but not by that much. _Please let him be right._ If he was, then the length of this call just drastically decreased and likelihood of success for it increased. "That's great, Sam, that's more than great. Walk me through your thought process." He snapped his fingers at Spike, catching the man's attention and gesturing for him to come over as he scribbled down the building descriptions and floor numbers. The techie's eyes lit and he darted away with the information, no doubt to work some magic.

"It's mostly about analyzing the angles. The first victims were right in front of us and I had a very good view of them and how they fell—" he broke off with a coughing fit.

Jack winced at the loud, hacking coughs. It hadn't gone unnoticed that Sam's speech had grown more and more strained, and Jack could no longer attribute it to a poor connection. "I'm sorry to make you talk so much, Sam, I know it's hot out there and you must be exhausted."

There was a pause, then, "It's not just the heat," the other man admitted quietly. "Another reason I have a pretty good idea of the subject's location is because I have some pretty concrete evidence as to at least one bullet's trajectory…"

Jack's brain sent off alarm bells, and ran back to the moment when he'd heard Libby mutter something about 'flood.' It had struck him as odd at the time, but with a horrifying clarity, he realized he'd been mistaken. _Blood loss, not 'flood moss', you idiot!_ he reprimanded himself _._

"Sam, are you saying you were shot?" he demanded, worry sharpening his tone. He looked up as the word 'shot' left his lips, just in time to meet eyes with Spike, who had returned unnoticed. The Italian's eyes widened but Jack turned away to regain at least the illusion of privacy. "Sam?" he prompted again.

Another sigh. "Yeah, unfortunately that's exactly what I'm saying, Jack."

He closed his eyes. _So they weren't all headshots, then,_ he thought to himself, amending his earlier assertion. A single body shot seemed out of character with the subject, but he put his concerns aside to focus on Sam's situation. "How bad?"

"Libby would probably tell you I look terrible, because she's over protective and over dramatic sometimes," an indignant shout could be heard in the background, "but the truth is, it's bad enough. Shot to my mid-thoracic region, entry but no exit."

Despite himself, Jack couldn't help but try to lighten the mood. "'Mid-thoracic region,' huh? Going all surgeon on me, Sam?"

"Nah, just sounds a little better than some of the alternatives."

Alternatives such as, _almost hit through the heart, punctured lung…_

A hand rapidly tapping his shoulder caught his attention: Spike, gesturing frantically for the phone.

Jack hesitated, before cautiously broaching the subject. "I can appreciate that. You just hang tight, okay? In the meantime, I've got someone here who would like to talk to you—"

He didn't even finish his sentence before Sam's quiet but firm, "I'd rather not," echoed over the line.

"I really think you should reconsider—" he tried one more time.

"Well I don't. Just…" the other man paused, and there was a world of pain painted between the lines of his ragged breaths, "it's not a good idea."

"Okay, Sam, okay." Jack met eyes with Spike and shook his head, before walking away. "Can't say I get it or agree, though. Want to help me understand?"

"I don't want to have to deal with their anger right now."

"Why would they be angry?" he asked, pressing a little.

"They have their reasons," was all Sam offered.

Jack bit his tongue. _They might have their reasons, that doesn't mean they're_ _ **good**_ _reasons._

"Okay. Well you just sit tight—

"Hang on, Jack I need to ask you something," Sam interrupted.

"I'm all ears."

There was a brief pause, before, "Can you tell me how many victims there are?"

It was an odd request, but one that Jack could readily answer. "There are twelve confirmed fatalities—all headshots. Before we found out about you, we thought he'd _only_ gone for headshots. To be honest it seems strange that the pattern deviated with you…"

"Yeah well it wasn't supposed to," Sam muttered. "The shot that hit me was supposed to be a headshot, I just kind of… got in the way."

"That makes more sense," Jack commented, wincing at how callous his words sounded.

"Twelve fatalities, and I make thirteen," Sam appeared to muse aloud.

"Hey, hey now, you are not a fatality!" he exclaimed, startled that Sam seemed to be so fatalistic already.

He heard a similar cry of dismay on the other end of the line, no doubt from Libby.

"No no, poor choice of words, I'm just… tr-trying to put all of the pieces together," Sam reassured faintly. "Something's just been feeling o-off, and I'm trying to figure out what it is."

 _Sam's keyed into it, too, then. But what is it, dammit? What's really going on?_

"I agree that something weird is going on here, Sam. It's just a hunch, but one of our working hypotheses is that this was all set up to hit one target, someone they knew would be here… but that they missed."

There was a pause on the other end, before, "That would make sense then, why the subject's still here. He's looking for someone, waiting for someone's patience to run out."

"Exactly, so stay on your toes—metaphorically speaking I guess—and if something changes and we need to reach you, we'll call. If you need to reach us, call me on my cell." He rattled off the number. "We're going to get you out of there, Sam."

He hung up and walked back towards Spike, who was waiting a polite distance away, nervous.

"He's hit?" the other officer demanded. "How bad, and why won't you let me talk to him?"

"Yes, he's hit. I'm not sure the full extent, but it's not good. And I would have let you talk to him, but he didn't want to talk to you," Jack declared, holding Spike's gaze in a challenge.

But only confusion crossed the other man's face. "What? Why not?"

Jack shrugged. "You tell me. Something's going on in your team. I don't know what and I don't know who's at fault, though some of you clearly think it's Sam. All I can say is you all need to figure it out and fast, or you might not get the chance to," he told the techie unapologetically. If Team One didn't come together quickly, they might lose a member of their family forever.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.**

Troy doesn't have a last name in the series (I think), so I gave him one :)

I'm not a trained law professional/police officer/etc therefore Jack, Troy and Ed's thoughts as to the situation being weird/analyzing the subject from his actions/the conclusions they draw are entirely my own and I recognize may be faulty in the real world, but they're entirely sound inside the universe of my story.

So Ed is stubborn and mad, Spike is confused and concerned, Jack's concerned and a little frustrated, and Libby's mad and concerned... and poor Sam's not doing well. So much angst! But I guess that's where this story is headed because the team (mostly Ed) need to get set straight and properly appreciate Sam! And Sam needs hugs.

The next few chapters will finally reveal what happened on the hot call, and Spike and Ed are going to have a much needed conversation. There's definitely going to be some timeline jumping around, but I'll try to keep it clear where we are. I swear it's necessary for suspense and storyline reveal :)


	12. Chapter 12

**A.N.** Thank you to all of you for your kind words on the last chapter! I'm sorry I have not had the chance to thank you all individually, but thank you from the bottom of my heart! It's great to be writing again and thank you all so much for sticking with me. As a thank you, here's yet another long chapter that's even longer than chapter 11, and as a bonus, it finally delves into the hot call that's got Team One being so dysfunctional!

Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

.

.

.

.

* * *

Libby swallowed a wave a nausea that roared through her, twisting her stomach and increasing the pounding in her head. She knew it was because of the heat, could already feel her skin burning as it went head to head with the beating sun and lost. Her mouth had long ago gone dry.

It scared her. Almost more than the gunman waiting to pick them off, and certainly more than her broken arm, which at this point was almost an inconvenient annoyance, due to her body being overloaded with adrenaline. Pain she could ignore. But this slow, inexorable loss to an unfeeling foe. Physically feeling herself begin to lose a battle she never had a chance at winning in the first place? That scared her. There was _nothing_ she could do to stop the rising heat, the pounding, relentless pulse of her blood as it curdled. And if it was bad for her, it was worse for Sam. While she could feel sweat escaping, pouring down her body, taking with it precious fluids she needed, Sam was losing that and more. Losing fluid, losing _blood_ that he couldn't afford to.

And that scared her more than her arm, more than the threat of violence hanging over them, more than the sun and heatstroke setting in. Because if things didn't change soon, she was going to lose him, right in front of her eyes.

In fact, she could tell that she was already losing him, though not to the gunshot—at least, not yet.

As he hung up the phone, having shared all he could and given them the best chance they had, his eyes closed, face going slack. Shutting down.

All throughout the call, he'd been "on," alert and doing his best to be clear and communicative. He'd tensed up as soon as Ed had butted in, and had been unable to relax, and it had clearly taken its toll. With his eyes closed, head resting against the wall behind him, he looked as if his world had just crumbled around him, as if someone he trusted had yanked the rug out from under his feet.

And maybe that's exactly what happened.

His team—his family, his support—had turned against him, and though that more than warranted Sam feeling angry and hurt, feelings that had flared in his eyes when Ed had said something just moments ago—she'd heard the other man's raised voice, though not the particulars of his words—now… now Sam just looked drained. Resigned. Like he thought he deserved what his team had done to him.

It was high time she got to the bottom of this, so that she could properly chew out the ears of all of the members of Team One who had turned their backs on a friend.

"Sam," she called, waiting until he opened his eyes and looked at her before continuing, "It's later," she pointed out, forcing a smile onto her face.

He stared at her for several long moments, face blank before confusion gradually replaced it.

"Before all this," she explained gently, "when we were sitting over there drinking our iced lemonades like our worlds weren't about to be changed forever, you promised you'd tell me about yesterday's hot call later today… well, it's later."

He gazed at her for a long time, looking for what she wasn't sure. He must have found it, though, because he sighed and nodded. "What do you want to know?"

"Just tell me what happened."

"Well… it all started when I showed up late…"

Admittedly, that was not what she was expecting. Had Sam ever been late to work a day in his life?

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

 _29 hours earlier_

For the second time in his career at the SRU, Sam was late to work. And seeing as the first time he'd been caught in a hostile takeover of a store and desperately trying to save everyone inside, he gave himself a pass on that one. Which meant he counted today as the first time he was actually late.

Well, technically he wasn't actually late, he just wasn't early, but it was an unspoken rule for Team One that even if you did not participate in the pre-shift workout—which was also an unspoken rule—you were to arrive at least fifteen minutes before shift so that you would be ready the moment the shift started. Which meant that as he rode his bike at full speed towards the Barn, watching the seconds climb to minutes, minutes that were past 6:45am when he was _supposed_ to have arrived, minutes that were dangerously close to striking 7, he could feel a small wave of dread rising in him. He knew his team would understand once they heard the reason why, but it was the principle of the matter which made Sam grit his teeth. He hated being late to _anything._ He knew all too well that showing up late could very easily be interpreted as disrespect by other members of the SRU, ones who did not know Sam as well as Team One did. He knew no one in Team One would doubt his commitment to the job, to the team, but he couldn't say the same of anyone else.

He practically threw his bike into its lock on the bike rack outside of the building before rushing inside. Bursting through the door, he glanced at his watch and breathed a sigh of relief that it read exactly 6:58am— _at least I'm not late by SRU standards,_ he thought gratefully—which caused him to almost run into Greg.

Greg glanced at him on his way to the front desk and shook his head. "You're late, Sam. That's unacceptable," he called in a firm admonishment, before continuing on his way in a clear dismissal.

"I know, Boss, I'm sorry," Sam called after him, but the other man just flipped through some paper work, back turned.

Sam frowned slightly at the obvious display of a cold shoulder, and moved to follow the man in order to straighten things out, but he was stopped when he heard a sharp, "Sam!" from somewhere behind him.

Freezing, he turned cautiously and squared his shoulders at the figure approaching him: Ed.

Sam eyed the hard set of the man's jaws, the subtle tension in his body, the lingering echo of his shout, and for the first time that morning, doubt crept into his mind. Doubt that his teammates, his friends, would actually understand why he was late.

"Ed," Sam greeted quietly, trying to understand why the other man seemed to have an air of hostility about him, why the Boss was just standing there like he didn't exist. Maybe he was reading it wrong? Had something happened? "Is everything okay?" he asked, thinking perhaps a catastrophe had occurred to put Ed and Greg on edge.

"No, Sam, everything is not okay," Ed snapped. "Because one of my officers decided out of the blue that his work wasn't important enough for him to even bother to show up on time. Wanna explain that?"

Sam nodded. He'd known he would have to explain himself. "I'm sorry, Ed, it won't happen again; something came up—"

"Damn right it won't happen again," Ed interrupted, arms crossed, "because if it does, you're going to be doing more than talking to me, you'll be walking out of here. Permanently. Minutes mean the difference between life and death, Sam, I shouldn't have to tell you that," he continued, disappointment lacing his voice.

"I know, Ed, that's actually—" Sam tried again.

Ed narrowed his eyes. "You trying to make excuses, Sam?"

Sam snapped his mouth shut. He knew that when Ed adopted that tone, there was no questioning the man. He flicked his eyes towards Greg, who was clearly within earshot of the conversation, but had chosen not to engage in it. Sam kept his expression carefully neutral as he returned his gaze to Ed, but internally his mind was racing, trying to understand what might have caused the other two men to be so angry at him that morning. Yes, he'd been late—or rather, he'd been just on time, but in their books he knew that meant late—and he understood that they needed to chastise him for his tardiness, but this was going beyond a friendly reprimand for a first time offense. If this were a repeat offense, he could understand getting the third degree as he was now, but with the exception of the Oakes incident, he'd never once been late before.

Not. Once.

Shouldn't that strike the other two men as odd? If Sam were honest with himself, he'd thought that his teammates would either joke about it for weeks—giving him no end of grief for the uncharacteristic behavior—or corner him out of concern because it was so unlike him. He had not been expecting to be grilled and dressed down, without even an acknowledgement that it was entirely out of the ordinary, which perhaps merited someone asking _why_ he was late. He wasn't looking for a chance to provide an excuse—because no matter how good his reason for being "late," that's still what it would be, an excuse—but he _was_ looking for his teammates, his _friends_ to realize that it was _not_ like him to be late.

The moment Ed had greeted him—or rather, shouted at him—Sam had begun to doubt whether his teammates would understand why he was late. It had never occurred to him, however, that they wouldn't even bother to ask, that they wouldn't even care.

Squaring his shoulders, Sam replied, "No sir, like I said, it won't happen again, sir."

Ed nodded, apparently satisfied. "See that it doesn't."

Once the other two men walked away, Sam headed for the locker room in order to clean up and prepare for the day, quickly writing off the incident as a once time thing, understanding that the heat must be getting to everyone and making tempers short.

Unfortunately, it was not a one-time thing, and if it was the heat that was causing Ed and even Greg's tempers to be shorter than normal, it did so in a very selective way, for only Sam caught the brunt of their discontent as the team ran through drills… no one else.

Sam refused to rise to the bait, however, and never responded to the continuous verbal reprimands that reminded him painfully of when he'd first joined the team and the members of Team One had been less than welcoming. He kept telling himself that it was just a bad day, that things would be better tomorrow, that this was not the start of a new pattern or the renewal of an old one. That couldn't stop him from feeling a little hurt by the actions and words of his teammates, and the fact that no one else seemed to notice the unusual, unwarranted treatment. Not Jules, not Spike, not even Wordy, who was usually very sensitive and tuned into these things.

Eventually, several hours into their shift, other members of the team started to pick up on the undercurrent, but instead of putting a stop to it or raising a voice challenging this abnormal behavior, they were swept up in it. During a simulated hot call, every decision that Sam made was questioned. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to make the right move. Everyone seemed determined to find fault with his behavior and actions, except for Spike. Only Spike seemed impervious to the atmosphere and still treated him normally. However the bomb-expert also appeared oblivious—or purposefully ignored—the targeting and did nothing to stop it.

As the day progressed, Sam was finding it harder and harder to just write it off, but he still did. Sometimes the team needed to blow off steam, needed an outlet, and apparently today Sam was it. He told himself it happened to everyone—even though it didn't. Told himself it didn't matter, so long as it didn't last longer than the day and didn't put anyone's lives at risk.

Unfortunately, it did.

They got called out to hot call at a small grocery store of all places, where a single subject was holding a handful of people hostage after an apparent robbery gone wrong.

When they arrived, Greg immediately assigned Wordy and Jules to interview witnesses, and Spike to set up a command center in the truck and get eyes in, while Sam started looking at blue prints, getting the lay of the land. Spike passed along where the subject was located within the store as soon as he a visual, and Greg and Ed crowded around Sam to get their own view of the layout. Sam had just started to ask if they had an ID on the subject and any ideas on potential motivation, when Greg cut him off and assigned him as Sierra One. Sam was so surprised that he forcibly snapped his mouth shut in order to keep it from hanging open. _A Sierra? On this call?_ Spike's location of the subject showed that the man was nowhere near any windows, and the layout of the grocery was a single story, low slung building. A Sierra would not be able to get any vantage into the store.

"Boss, are you sure a Sierra is warranted?" he asked, voice carefully neutral, but the moment the words left his mouth, he mentally kicked himself. On any other day, maybe it would have been okay, but not today, not with how they seemed determined to fault him for everything. And he'd just left the door wide open.

"Hey!" Ed snapped, "Are you in charge? No! So don't question orders! You're Sierra One. Set up on the roof of that building over there."

Sam was shocked. He hadn't been told where to choose his Sierra perch in years; once the team had finally truly welcomed him into their ranks, Ed had always trusted him to analyze the situation and choose the best spot. And because Sam clearly hadn't fully adjusted to his team's attitude towards him today, instead of keeping his mouth shut and taking it, his mouth was moving again before he could stop it. "Ed, I think I should set up a building over on the second floor," he pointed to the structure next to the one Ed had indicated. Though a Sierra position seemed pointless, if they were going to make him do it just to get him out of the way—because he could see that's exactly what they were doing—he was damn well still going to take it seriously. "That flag's gonna be a problem with my sightline if a breeze comes in," he gestured to a pole that stood in front of Ed's building across the street, a flag hanging limply from it, "and the roof is going to put me too high in order to have any possibility of seeing into the building."

Ed narrowed his eyes, mouth shaping into a mulish line. "Sam, it is almost a hundred degrees out with what feels like a hundred percent humidity, has been for weeks and without a single breeze to cool it off. That building is directly across from the store, and will give you the best set up, so get your ass up to the roof," he pointed angrily at the first building, "or take off your gear and get out of here. I don't need someone on this call who I have to worry about following orders."

"Yes sir," Sam snapped, unable to keep the bite from his voice, before he forced himself to walk away so that he didn't say anything else he might regret due to the anger that was coursing through him.

He snatched his rifle from the truck and jogged across the wide street to Ed's assigned building. He considered using the exterior fire escape to make it up to the roof, but didn't like the look of it and instead made his way inside, found the interior stairs, and jogged the three stories to the roof. After setting up the rifle and getting on his stomach, he looked down the scope towards the scene. Sure enough, he couldn't see any indication of the hostage situation going on in the store, as it was taking place much too far back from the front windows.

"I have no visual on the subject or the hostages," he informed his teammates over the radio.

"Copy that, stay there and monitor the situation in case something changes," Greg ordered.

Sam settled down for a long wait, keeping one eye trained down the scope, watching for any changes, and one ear tuned into the actions of his team. He heard Greg using a megaphone to implore the subject to pick up the phone, heard Wordy and Jules report back that the subject was a well-known regular at the store, a father with two kids who was the sweetest person they'd ever known. No one could explain why he was taking such drastic actions against people he knew.

With the sun beating down on his dark gear and sweat began pouring down his neck and back, Sam frequently had to blink the moisture from his eyes. In short, he was miserable—for more reasons than the sun beating down on him, reasons that had to do with the hurtful actions of his teammates. But there was one good thing that came out of how miserable he was in the heat, because that was how he noticed the problem so quickly. One moment he was doing his best to listen as Greg finally made contact with the distraught subject, the next he suddenly felt the barest hints of cool relief from the heat as a wistful breeze whisked across his skin. A few moments later, it happened again.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, as Greg made very little headway with the subject, Sam watched with growing frustration as the flag, which once hung limply on its pole, began to flutter gently, then more vigorously.

 _Dammit, today of all days it had to get breezy?_ he grumbled to himself, now keeping one eye on the flag as it slowly crept towards its full extent. _Do I say something?_ On any other day, the answer to that question would unequivocally have been yes, but on this day? He wasn't so sure… He knew he should say something as it could affect the situation if he lost a visual—not that he actually had a visual, since the subject was so far back in the store, but he could still lose the _possibility_ of a visual—but he knew if he did, it would likely cause discontent amongst certain members of the team.

 _Screw it, they're already mad at me, how much worse can it get?_

"Ed?" he called through the coms.

"Yeah Sam?"

"I'm losing visual on the situation," he stated.

He was met with a sigh on the other end, which was honestly better than he'd been expecting. "Copy that. I don't think a Sierra will end up being needed, but keep an eye on things up there until you completely lose a visual."

"Copy," Sam acknowledged, glad that facial expressions could not be transmitted over vocal coms, because Ed would not like his current one. He grit his teeth, clenching and unclenching his jaw in order to prevent himself from saying more.

Negotiations continued. And as Sam heard more and more, he did not like the direction that things were headed. The motivation for the incident still hadn't come out, but the subject kept circling back to his kids and how difficult it was being a single father when he knew he was about to lose his job, which would mean they would be at risk of being evicted from their apartment, no longer able to pay their rent. Ed had actually taken over negotiating, as he'd been able to make a connection with the man over the struggles of fatherhood. While that initially had helped things, and the subject had calmed some, he was now ramping back up and getting increasingly agitated and desperate. As Sam listened, it almost seemed like the man was _trying_ to get angry, trying to keep his blood up. Why? Sam was beginning to have a guess as to why, and thought it might be the motivation for the entire incident. And if he was right, he was concerned that this day would not end well.

Deciding to try to figure out if he was right or not, he reached out to the one person who seemed most likely to listen to him today.

Muting his coms, he pulled out his cell and dialed.

On the second ring, it picked up.

"Sam?" Spike asked in confusion. "Why are you calling me? Something wrong with your coms?"

"Nah, nothing wrong with my coms, just… I have a hunch I'm wondering if you could maybe help me try to run down?"

There was a pause.

 _Please, Spike, just go with it, don't ask questions…_ Sam pleaded silently.

"Of course," Spike chimed moments later, "what can I do?"

"Any way you can find out if this guy has a life insurance policy?"

"Sam, I am injured. Are you doubting my abilities? Questioning if it's something I can accomplish rather than just assuming it is? Of _course_ I can find out if this guy has a policy. Why?"

"It's just a hunch."

A noise of exasperation emanated over the line. "You said that already, Sam. What is your hunch expecting to find?"

"That he does have a policy, a good one."

Silence fell again.

"You think he's started this whole thing because he's trying suicide by cop?" Spike queried, but there was no challenge in his voice, only the desire to understand.

"It's a possibility that occurred to me that I'd either like to rule out or find evidence for. He's desperate, focused on his kids and his imminent lack of money, there was never really the possibility that he'd get a lot of money from the store, not to mention that he's threatening people who are his _friends_ for no apparent reason, and the minute Ed starts to get through to him and he starts waffling, he immediately purposefully keys himself back up, like he's trying to work his way up to it. The whole vibe I'm getting from this situation reminds me of a…" he paused, unsure of how much detail to share, before continuing, "a situation I witnessed where that ended up being the motive."

Spike hummed. "Good points. I'll look into it and let you know what I find."

"Thanks. If you do find something, can _you_ share it with the team?" Sam put a little extra emphasis on the word "you," hoping Spike would catch on without Sam having to be explicit.

Pause. "Sure thing, buddy! How's it going up there? You doing okay?"

For the first time since his shift started, a small smile slipped onto his face. It felt good to know perhaps not all hope was lost. "Doing fine, thanks, Spike."

"Hang in there, Sam!" the Italian encouraged before hanging up, and Sam got the feeling the other man was talking about more than just his current predicament as a Sierra, and more about the entire day's situation with the team.

Sam's smile grew.

In the next few minutes, however, that smile disappeared as things went from bad to worse. As the minutes dragged on and on, it became clear that negotiations were breaking down… and the breeze was picking up.

"Dammit!" Sam heard Ed swear over the coms, as the subject hung up once more. "I feel for this guy! He's been put through hell, and up until today he was trying to make the best out of a shitty situation, and I keep getting through to him but then he just slips through my fingers again!"

"I know, Eddie," Greg replied, tone one of sympathy and understanding for the difficult position the negotiator was in. "But given his behavior, I think it's time we consider our tactical options," Greg continued reluctantly.

"Ed, Boss, I may have some insight into the situation, or at least a hunch," Spike interjected. "Our subject, Brad Grayes, has a very good life insurance policy to his name… as of two weeks ago."

 _Thank you, Spike,_ Sam thought silently, ever appreciative that the Italian had figured out this information couldn't come from or be linked to Sam. Not today.

Explosive swearing echoed over the line, before Ed finally calmed and demanded, "You're telling me you think this guy is trying to get around the policy limits using suicide by cop? That's never a sure thing, and his kids are going to have to live with his death hanging over them forever! How can he do this!?"

"Ed," Greg broke in, "remember that this is just a man who is at the end of his rope who feels like he has exhausted all of his options, and this is the only one he thinks is left. He's not necessarily thinking rationally right now. And that would explain why you can't get through to him; he's deliberately trying to provoke us into action, but he hasn't worked up the courage yet to take action himself. We can use that to our advantage."

"You're right, you're right. Spike, Jules, Wordy, rendezvous with me and Greg at the back of the store, we're going to try our entry through there. Sam, stay as Sierra."

This time, despite his desire to protest, Sam held his tongue. Instead he watched and listened as his teammates, his friends, prepared to enter a volatile situation where the subject would likely try to do everything in his power to escalate and provoke Team One into action, either resulting in Brad Grayes' death, or the death of one of Sam's friends. Possibly both. And there wasn't a damn thing Sam could do about it from his current position.

So he waited, watched and listened. Heard his teammates enter the store, heard them confront the subject, heard Ed try to restart negotiations, and tried to put together a picture of what was happening from what he could hear. He could imagine his team, a wall of ballistic shields and guns trained on the desperate father, trying their hardest to convince him to choose to live, not to make one of them take his life that day. He could picture Ed as he pleaded with the man, could almost watch as the man's gun hand slowly lowered as Ed's voice grew more encouraging. He could practically see as Spike walked forward slowly, cautiously, in order to disarm the man as Ed continued to tell the man he was doing the right thing.

What he could not see, what he could only try to piece together from the shouting voices, the panic and chaos that flooded over the coms moments later, was a hostage taking her chance and going after the subject just as he was about to surrender, just as Spike reached him. Sam never could have imagined how those few seconds would utterly change the outcome.

All he could hear over the coms were yells of, "Put the weapon down!" and "Let him go, Brad, you don't want to do this!"

Gone were the few milliseconds of hope that had fluttered into being moments before when it had sounded like the subject would finally listen to Ed.

Sam tried to get someone to talk to him, to tell him what was going on, but no one could, too focused on everything that was going wrong right before their eyes.

The next thing Sam knew, his team was backing slowly out of the front of the store, guns trained on the entrance as Sam got his first glimpse of whom he could only assume was Brad Grayes. And it truly was just a glimpse, for the man was almost completely shielded by a hostage, a man he was forcibly holding in front of him, a gun to the man's head.

Spike.

"Brad, I need you to calm down," Ed called in a commanding voice, standing behind the shield Greg was holding, flanked on either side by Jules and Wordy, both of whom had their guns trained on Grayes.

As Sam analyzed the angles, assessing if he had the solution without endangering Spike, he realized with dawning horror that he did, but that if the subject kept stepping forward, he was going to lose his line of sight because of the damn flag.

"I have the solution, but I will lose it if you let him take two more steps forward," Sam told his teammates, doing his best to keep his voice calm despite the fact that his adrenaline was racing, not just because of the threat of an active shooter, but because Spike was directly in the line of fire.

"Sam, do not shoot," Ed commanded in a voice that only carried over the coms, and not to the distressed man in front of them. "Repeat, do not shoot. Everyone is walking home today, we are not giving this man what he wants."

With his gun's scope, Sam had a clear view of the subject's eyes and he could see the determination there, the resolve that had settled in as Grayes yelled at Team One, no longer listening to what Ed was saying. And more importantly, he could see the man clenching the trigger with ever increasing force and speed. "Ed," Sam hissed, "I know you want to save this guy, I get that, you've connected, but you are not going to be able to talk him down! Maybe you can't see from your position, but he has made up his mind, I can see him working up the nerve to shoot Spike right in front of my eyes! Look at his hand!"

"I can see just fine, Sam, well enough to see that the safety is still _on,_ " Ed growled, before raising his voice to call out to the subject, "You are not dying today, Brad! Put the gun down! We are not going to shoot you!"

 _The safety might still be on for now, but it won't be for long,_ Sam thought to himself, just as the subject took another step forward and disappeared from Sam's view.

"Dammit! I do not have the solution, repeat, I do not have the solution," he cried frantically through the coms, picking his head up and immediately assessing if there was anywhere on this roof he could reposition himself to regain a visual that would not put Spike in the line of fire. There wasn't. He was already positioned in the north-east most corner, in order to get any kind of visual he would have to go further east, to the building he'd originally wanted to set up on.

While he could no longer see the situation, he could hear it, both through the coms and echoing from across the street. The shouting voices grew ever louder, Grayes threatening to shoot and Ed promising that they wouldn't. Sam knew one way or another, this situation was going to be over in the next few minutes, long before he would be able to make it to the other roof if he ran down the fire escape to street level and all the way up the other building.

"Jules, Wordy, do you have the solution?" Sam demanded, rising to his feet and racing towards the edge of the building.

Two "negatives" echoed back over the line.

 _Damn damn damn damn_ _ **damn!**_

There were only two options that Sam could see: let the situation resolve without a Sierra and the likely outcome would be Spike with a bullet to his head, or do something really stupid in order to regain his vantage and hope for the best.

Needless to say, there wasn't really a choice.

Slinging his rifle onto his back, strap slung over his shoulder, Sam backed away from the edge of the roof.

 _Yeah, this is a great idea… it's not going to hurt at all,_ his inner sarcastic voice hissed to him, before he took a few running steps and launched himself into open space, over the alley between the two buildings.

For a few moments, he was weightless. Then he felt his stomach flip as he began to drop, until his feet slammed into the fire escape of the next building over, a floor down, grateful that the structure didn't collapse or detach from the wall—given its rusting condition, he'd half been expecting it to.

While he didn't plummet to a painful landing on the ground, either from missing his landing or the stairs crumbling, his landing was still painful and he gasped as his entire right side slammed into the brick wall, grateful for the tactical helmet he was still wearing, otherwise he was certain he would have had a concussion. As it was, his knee, ribs and shoulder were less than happy with the treatment, and it took him a few precious seconds to gather himself and charge up the stairs to the roof of the building.

He reached the edge of the roof, swung his rifle around and looked down the scope at the scene, looking for the Solution or _any_ solution to the situation.

Jules and Wordy had fanned out slightly in order to get better angles on Grayes, but had not taken a shot, not only because they were waiting for Ed's orders as the lead negotiator, but also because their angles were not ideal and Sam knew there was the concern that shooting the subject might cause him to squeeze the trigger of the gun that was still pointed at Spike's head. It was a concern Sam shared.

His own angle on Grayes was only slightly more ideal, as the man's shorter stature meant he was mostly covered by Spike's larger frame. It meant that the man's head and neck were only _just_ visible and uncomfortably close to Spike's own person. Still, Sam could make the shot.

"I have the Solution," he reported.

"Sam for the last time, do not shoot, god dammit!" Ed yelled, finally loud enough for the subject to hear. "Brad is not going to make one of us live with shooting him, are you, Brad?" Ed stepped out from behind Greg's shield, hands in the air. "Because you want what any father wants, what's best for their kids, right Brad? Do you really want to make them live with the knowledge that their dad is dead?"

Sam watched the conflict rage once more in Grayes eyes, watched his hand pulse again on the trigger, then watched as his mouth moved in a quiet statement, read his lips as he breathed, "this is the only way," and saw the conflict turn to steely resolve.

Grayes shifted his aim. The safety came off.

Sam didn't hesitate.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** A cliffie, I know... by now hopefully you're resigned to the fact that that is just how I do things :) But now we finally know all of what happened on the hot call! Or, _almost_ all of what happened...

Team One's going to have a lot to make up for...

Also, I honestly can't remember if Sam was ever late during the run of Flashpoint, though I don't think he was... but if he was, oops, my bad! He wasn't in my universe.

And the unspoken rules of Team One regarding being early/late and the whole workout situation are entirely of my own version of Team One's rules, not necessarily directly from the show.


	13. Chapter 13

**A.N.** And here we are again! Just a tiny note this time that I had to make a tiny modification to last chapter, because though Sam hasn't been late in the show, he _has_ been late to work once before, in the previous story Timing! Haha, whoops! So I just revised a few sentences to reflect that.

And now, without further ado, a much needed conversation! Someone's about to be set straight...

.

.

.

.

* * *

 _Now_

Along with several others, Ed had been tasked by Troy to contact loved ones of those in the square who had not already called in to the line set up for them, in an effort to determine their background and if there was anyway someone could have known with certainty that they would be in the square that day. He made the calls, obtained the necessary information, and if the person had not planned to be in the square, crossed their name off the list. If they had, he marked it and passed it along to another officer to chase down, while he made more calls. It wasn't easy, making those calls, because often it involved being the first to inform a loved one that their friend or family member was in peril. While Ed knew it was necessary, he couldn't help feeling that Troy had done it as a punishment for how he'd lashed out at Sam.

He was just finishing up a phone conversation with a man who had broken down crying thirty seconds into the conversation, when Ed had informed him that his brother was in the square. As he tried to reassure the man, while also ascertaining the pertinent information, Spike walked into his peripheral vision and stopped not two feet from Ed, foot tapping and arms crossed—or, as crossed as they could be, with one of them now back in a sling, much to Ed's approval.

Ed glanced at him, long enough to catch the Italian's irritated expression, and for the other man to mouth, 'I need to talk to you. NOW.'

Ed nodded and held up a finger in a 'give me one minute' gesture, and continued his conversation with the distraught brother.

Spike huffed quietly, but did nothing more to disturb Ed, apparently deciding that not interrupting him would be the fastest way to get Ed to finish so that they could then talk about whatever it was that Spike wanted to talk about.

What that was, Ed wasn't entirely sure, though given their earlier altercation where Spike had been deliberately obtuse—in Ed's opinion—his guess was it had to do with Sam. The Italian's glare was already making him grit his teeth, temper rising in response to the man's silent chastising.

Moments later, once he had finally ascertained that it had _not_ in fact been a spontaneous outing that had taken the man's brother into the square, and instead that it was a weekly reoccurring event where the man took his daughter out for the afternoon, Ed hung up and before turning to his teammate, turned to another officer.

"Officer Florence, I have a potential lead on a victim who was scheduled to be in the square today: a Ben Gaskill who is apparently a judge. Can you follow up and check his background, pull any pertinent information? What sort of cases he's tried? Pass what you find along to Sergeant Westin."

The officer nodded.

Finally turning to Spike, Ed demanded, "Okay, what's wrong?" Though he suspected it was about Sam, he wanted to make the other man be the first to bring it up.

"'What's wrong?'" Spike echoed, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "That's really what you're going to start with? You know what! Or you should! Or maybe you actually really don't, but think that you do, because clearly you are not thinking straight!"

Ed frowned, unable to follow the other man's train of thought. "Spike, hold on, slow down, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you being deliberately stubborn and obtuse, Ed, and refusing to look at things from a different perspective!" Spike practically yelled.

Ed's eyes flicked cautiously around the room. The yell hadn't drawn anyone's attention, but he felt the need to move this conversation to a more private venue just in case. Taking the other man by the arm, he led them into an office with a door and shut it. "What the hell are you talking about, Spike? I thought this was about Sam?"

The man's face flushed in anger. "Of course this is about Sam!"

Ed tried to backtrack in order to remove the defensiveness from his voice and reign in his temper, because they were getting nowhere with both of their tempers' rising. "Spike," he soothed, keeping his voice quiet, "you're going to have to back up and explain, because I don't understand how your perception of me being 'deliberately obtuse and stubborn,' as you put it, has anything to do with Sam."

"Of course you don't," Spike muttered vehemently, "because your head is stuck so far up you're a—"

"Spike!" Ed yelled, drowning out the man's next words. _So much for reigning in my temper,_ he thought ruefully. "That. Is. Not. Helpful," he ground out.

Spike crossed his arms again, wincing slightly as it pulled at his shoulder. "Fine, then tell me this. What the hell happened at the end of shift yesterday?"

Ed narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Spike—"

"Cut the bullshit, Ed!" Spike interrupted, calm façade snapping. "I tried calling Sam this morning before all of this started and he wouldn't pick up, not only would he not pick up, he clearly deliberately did _not_ pick up, which struck me as odd, but it wasn't as strange as the fact that he didn't even come to the hospital! There's no way Sam would let his own self-guilt—which I am confident he's feeling strongly, even though he shouldn't—stop him from checking on me! I couldn't figure it out, until I got to the scene here today and witnessed you and your behavior towards him, and now I'm starting to suspect that it is most definitely the culprit! What did you say to him? Did you tell him to stay away?"

"I didn't say anything to him!" Ed defended himself, though he knew it was a lie. "And what do you mean by 'my behavior towards him?'"

"What do I mean? What do you mean what do I mean?! What the hell was that back there?" Spike demanded, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder, in the general direction of the command post.

"What was what back where?"

"Ed!"

"Spike!" Ed countered. "There's been a lot going on! I'm not being obtuse, you're just going to have to be a little more specific!"

Spike took a deep breath. "Care to tell me why you ripped into Sam when he called in? Care to tell me why you tore into your teammate when he's just trying to help? Care to tell me why you publicly denigrated your _friend_ when his life is in danger?"

"So this _is_ about Sam."

"Yes, Ed," the other man agreed through clenched teeth, "this is about Sam, but it's also about your stubbornness. We'll get to that later, first, answer the questions: what was that back there, and what happened at the end of shift?"

It was Ed's turn to cross his arms, the defensiveness returning to both his voice and posture. "I spoke out against someone whose poor decisions caused a bad situation to get worse and because after yesterday, I no longer trust Sam's judgement, not when his actions put my _friend's_ life in danger," he stated clearly, mimicking Spike's emphasis on the word friend. "And as to what happened at the end of shift, the only thing that happened was what needed to happen: I very thoroughly communicated to Sam my opinion of his actions yesterday during the end of shift briefing."

Spike stared at him in disbelief. "Ed, Sam's actions yesterday were a little unorthodox—there's no questioning that—but they were ultimately commendable and don't warrant your callous treatment of him or you 'thoroughly communicating your opinion of his actions,' which I know actually means yelling at him at the top of your lungs!"

"I'm not treating him any differently because I _want_ to, I'm doing it because I don't want anything like yesterday to happen ever again, and telling him so in no uncertain terms seemed like the way to go! He was trying to prove a point, deliberately going against me because he thought he knew better!"

"Are you kidding me? You think he was trying to 'prove a point?!'" Spike echoed incredulously.

"Yes! And it all went to hell in a handbasket because of him!"

"Ed!" Spike cried in disbelief. "It was not Sam's fault!"

"Of course it was, Spike!"

"No, it wasn't! He wasn't trying to 'prove a point' or best the great and almighty Ed Lane, he was just doing his job!"

"The hell he was! I don't understand why you're fighting me on this! You of all people should understand, should be angry at Sam!" Ed exclaimed in frustration, gesturing at Spike's injured shoulder.

"Exactly, Ed! Of everyone involved, if anyone has the right to be mad at Sam, it's me! Which should give you a pretty big clue that you're in the wrong, Ed, because that's just it, I'm not mad at Sam because I don't have a right to be and neither do you!"

"He shot you, god dammit!"

"He fucking saved your life, Ed!" Spike exploded, shoving Ed backwards with his one good arm. "Don't you see that?! If Sam hadn't taken that shot, you would be dead on the sidewalk in front of that store!"

Ed blinked, taken aback by the fire behind his friend's words. "No, Spike—"

"No, Ed, you listen to me," Spike growled vehemently, grabbing onto the front of Ed's shirt and pulling him close. "You were less than ten feet away. Ten. Feet. No way was Grayes gonna miss from that distance. Did you not hear his gun go off? Because I sure did; it blew out my hearing for a nice long spell, but it would have blown out your brains if Sam's bullet hadn't hit him first and caused his shot to go wide, Ed!" Spike finished, shaking Ed and causing him to stumble slightly.

At Ed's shocked gaze, Spike's stance softened and he released his grip on Ed's jacket in order to shift his hand to the other man's shoulder. "Yesterday was a shitty situation all around," he continued more quietly. "There was never going to be a good outcome, and you did your best to change that. I know that. I _know_ that. You did everything you could, but nothing was going to change that man's mind. That's not on you, Ed. It's not your fault," he stated, squeezing Ed's shoulder gently. "But it's not Sam's fault, either. Sam did everything right, despite what you think. There were no good options, but when that gun moved from me to you, Sam found the best one he could and he took it."

"He still shot you, Spike. You were hurt because of him," Ed declared, unwilling to let go of his anger so easily, desperately trying to get Spike to see his side of things, even though he could feel the foundation beneath his argument weakening with every word from the bomb-expert.

Spike nodded. "That is a fact, I won't deny it, but I would take what amounts to a graze on my shoulder over a bullet to your head any day. He made the right call."

"He disobeyed orders. He broke protocol," Ed protested weakly.

"So did you when you stepped out from behind that shield!" Spike countered. "You analyzed the situation and you made a choice, what you thought was the _best_ choice, but it was still a choice that made you break protocol. Sam did the same thing, the difference is that you shouldn't have put him in that position in the first place! If your only defense is that he broke protocol, protocol is pretty clear in that situation! When negotiations have broken down and the subject threatens an officer, Scorpio should be given! And as you were the lead negotiator, it was your job to grant it! By denying it, you forced his hand!"

Both men fell silent, breathing hard.

Spike's brutal admonishment gave Ed pause and forced him to reconsider his position. Sam had disobeyed orders and Spike had been injured because of it, there was no changing that fact, but as Spike pointed out, hadn't Ed made similar calls in the past, not to mention the questionable choices he made yesterday? In the end, all of the members of Team One had walked away from that call only mildly scratched, because of Sam's quick actions. Ed was starting to see that now. So why had he reacted so poorly and attacked Sam so ruthlessly?

It would be easy for him to say it was just because Spike had been hurt and he'd therefore seen red, that the events before the shift had even started had colored his perspective. While that was true, and factored into the massive snowball effect that made a mess of their team, sharing those as the reasons with Spike was the easy, coward's way out. If he were honest with himself, he knew the main reason he'd been so dead set on blaming Sam, on believing Sam had deliberately injured Spike, was because he himself hadn't wanted to admit that maybe, just maybe he'd been wrong.

 _Pride's a bitch,_ Ed thought to himself ruefully, fully aware that pride was something he struggled with frequently. Unfortunately this time, his pride had led him to deeply hurt a friend.

"You're right," Ed admitted finally.

Spike's eyebrows shot upwards. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it, I'm not messing around, you're right. I was wrong to step out from behind that shield, I was wrong to hold off on calling Scorpio, and I was wrong to get so overly involved that I couldn't see past anything but doing everything I could to keep that man alive, even when you were at risk."

"No, Ed," Spike shook his head, "you weren't wrong to put yourself in harms-way, we've all taken personal risks like that. You were maybe a little wrong to hold off on calling Scorpio, but you weren't wrong to want to do everything you could so that Brad Grayes would live; I understand you didn't want any of us to deal with that kind of guilt, of taking a father from his kids. No, where you went wrong is when you lashed out at a teammate, a friend, who'd just made an impossible decision that most definitely saved his team, but meant _he_ shouldered the guilt that you were trying to save everyone from."

Ed looked away, blinking rapidly in order to keep his eyes dry, unprepared for Spike's raw, emotional reprimand. But Ed knew it only hurt as much as it did because he recognized it as the truth.

He cleared his throat and turned back to Spike. "Okay," he responded gruffly, "you're right again. I owe Sam an apology."

Spike nodded. "And you're not the only one. I do, too. The whole team does."

Ed frowned in confusion.

Spike sighed. "Are you really oblivious to the fact that you had it out for him the moment he set foot in the Barn yesterday? And that—I'm ashamed to admit—we all pretty much followed your lead and tore into Sam at every opportunity? What was going on, Ed? I haven't seen you and the Boss act like that towards him since…" he trailed off, clearly trying to dredge up a memory, before he continued, "since I don't know when. Probably since he joined the team. For Christ's sake, not only did you and the Boss put him on Sierra when that call did not warrant one—though thank god you did—you _chose_ his perch! Without a second thought, you turned your back on him, we all turned our backs on him… and I can't figure out why… why?" Spike asked, voice lost.

The other man's words caused Ed to remember Libby's scathing words last night, telling him teammates should _always_ have each other's backs. Telling him that apparently she—who had known Sam for only the blink of an eye as compared to Ed's years of acquaintance, of friendship with the man—knew Sam better than Ed did, because she knew Sam would have done all he could to do the right thing, to fix things. While Ed had only leapt to assume the worst of the man.

He knew Spike had a point, that Sam had only been treated this way years ago, back at the beginning of his tenure on Team One. And it made Ed grimace to think of how poorly they welcomed him into the fold, how they'd forced him to swim on his own while practically tying weights around his feet and giving him no helping hand, no guidance. But as bad as it was reflecting on what had happened years ago, when Ed barely knew Sam, it was worse to realize that without even knowing it, he'd slipped into an old pattern. What did that say about him, about Team One? That all it took was one shitty day for them to write off a member of their team?

He let out a long breath, uncomfortable with these realizations, before admitting quietly, "I honestly don't know, Spike. He was late and that made me mad and I guess it snowballed from there." There was more to it, Ed knew it was more than just Sam being late that had caused him and Greg to turn on the man, but it wasn't something he felt he could share with Spike now. It wasn't the time. And honestly, it no longer seemed important.

"That's it? Just because he was late?" Spike demanded, clearly unconvinced.

"Yes." _No._

Spike eyed him silently for a moment, waiting for Ed to continue, to stop lying, but when Ed kept his mouth shut, the other man sighed and asked curiously, "Do you even know why he was late? It's not like him, and I never even thought to ask."

Ed shook his head.

Spike nodded, as if he'd been expecting the answer. "Well we should have. And all of this, it can't happen again, Ed. Sam doesn't deserve that kind of treatment, and it's clearly something he's taken to heart in the last twenty-four hours. He practically shut down when he found out you and I were on this call, and he refused to talk to me even after Jack finished discussing the situation with him. If this happens again, I think he'd walk away from it all and to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't blame him."

Ed nodded, rubbing his hand over his head in frustration. "Yeah, dammit, we really screwed this one up."

"I just hope we get the chance to fix it," Spike murmured quietly.

"Of course we will," Ed exclaimed. "I know the situation's bad, but now that Sam's narrowed it down for us, we should be able to locate the subject soon and end this whole nightmare."

"'Soon' may not be quick enough for Sam," Spike muttered as he turned to head out the door.

Ed frowned and caught the other man's good arm. "What do you mean, Spike?"

The Italian turned back to him, clearly debating whether to share something with Ed or not.

"What aren't you telling me?" Ed demanded, authority creeping back into his voice.

"After your verbal lashing," Ed winced at the rebuke, but Spike ploughed on, unapologetic, "when Jack continued speaking with Sam, he found out that Sam's been shot."

"What the hell, Spike, why didn't you say something earlier!?" Ed yelled angrily.

"Because you needed to get your head out of your ass and understand that the truth is that Sam did nothing wrong. I didn't want you to do it because you felt pity or concern for him, because that wouldn't have gotten at the root of the issue," Spike explained calmly.

 _And what an ugly, rotten root it is,_ he lamented, wondering how they were supposed to fix all this.

Aloud, he declared, "We need to get him out of there."

Spike finally grinned, wide and genuine. "Best thing I've heard you say all day, Ed. Now let's go save our boy!"


	14. Chapter 14

**A.N.** Once again, thank you for sticking with me and for the reviews!

I won't keep you with a long author's note, therefore without further ado...

.

.

.

.

* * *

 _24 hours earlier..._

He could hear voices in his ear, all yelling over each other, incoherent, but Ed's voice rose above the rest, screaming, "NO!"

Sam wasn't sure whether that was directed at himself or at Grayes, though he was fairly certain it was both.

When Sam had first joined the SRU, he'd quickly learned the number one rule: don't question Ed. Over the years, that line in the sand had blurred, as he'd become a valued and trusted member of the team, one that others—including Ed—would look to for input. And yet, when given a direct order, you were still expected to follow it. No question.

But as Sam watched the gun pull away from Spike's head and begin to shift to a new target, there was no way Sam could follow orders this time. With the possibility of Grayes shooting Spike in a muscle spasm no longer a concern, Sam had milliseconds to make his decision as the gun swung towards Ed.

So while the voice in his ear was screaming at him not to, the voice in his head and heart, his own voice, knew it was the only option.

His finger squeezed on the trigger, eye fixed on his target, as something new swung just into the crosshairs of his scope, jostled due to Grayes' jerking movement as he aimed at Ed: a gray clad shoulder… Spike's shoulder.

Sam's finger had not yet finished pulling the trigger, he could stop now, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he did, Grayes would have his shot lined up in seconds and pull the trigger. At ten feet, the distraught man wasn't going to miss.

So Sam pulled the trigger first, despite the fact that he knew his shot would graze Spike, despite the fact he knew it would take a father from his children, despite the fact that his commanding officer was telling him not to, despite the fact that protocol told him he shouldn't… because he'd be damned if he was going to let a friend be taken from him when there was something he could do to stop it.

The shot echoed in his ears as he saw its effect ripple through the scene.

Grayes jerked and fell. Spike flinched and stumbled. Team One froze, then rushed forward.

Sam looked away, resting his head on his forearm for just a moment, eyes closed and encased in darkness, blocking out the images. He let out a breath as the adrenaline faded and had to bite his cheek in order to keep from gasping, as the consequences of his high flying leap suddenly made themselves known.

His ribs felt like a blunt object was being jabbed into his side repeatedly, and his knee already ached. He wondered if he would be able to make it down the stairs, but shook that thought off as ridiculous. _It wasn't even that hard of a hit,_ he admonished himself. _You're just in shock, take a few breaths and pull it together._

It took more than a few breaths, but eventually he was able to get to his feet, ready to pack away his gun, only to realize his gun case was still on the other roof. Which meant not only would he have to make it down the stairs with his knee and ribs shrieking at him the whole way, he would then have to go back _up,_ only to then come back down. Because he wasn't stupid enough to try his luck jumping across the alley again.

He let out a frustrated groan. _Can this day get any worse?_ he demanded, before mentally slapping himself for tempting fate. Because apparently with his luck that day, the answer was probably yes.

Limping to the fire escape and down, he was met at the base by an SIU Investigator.

"Sir, I need you to come with me," she stated, reaching for his arm, prepared to escort him to a waiting vehicle.

"Of course, but unless you want this evidence loose," he gestured to the gun slung over his shoulder, "I suggest you let me retrieve its case from up there," he pointed upward.

She frowned. "Didn't you just come from there? You left your case behind?"

Sam shook his head and explained patiently, "No, I left my case on the roof of the building behind you, not the one I just exited. I was originally set up on that building, but had to change locations quickly and chose not to transfer my case as well."

She still looked skeptical, but stepped aside and allowed him to lead the way back to the first roof, where he packed away his rifle. As soon as it was stowed, he gave it to her and followed her back to the ground, biting his tongue the whole way as each step jostled his knee and ribs. He knew nothing was broken, only badly bruised, but that did nothing to help ease the immediate pain.

When they'd reached the street once more, she led him towards the vehicle waiting to whisk him away to what was promising to be a brutal interview. Just as she opened the door and turned to usher him in, he saw her eyes widen and suddenly she was stepping towards him and shoving him behind her.

Sam stumbled and turned just in time to see her stop Ed in his tracks, just a foot away from Sam.

"What the hell did you do?!" the other man yelled, trying to get around the woman as she placed both hands on his tactical vest and shoved backwards.

"Hey!" she shouted, voice sharp. "Back off! You can't speak with him!"

Ed took a step backwards, still seething.

She turned back to Sam. "Officer Braddock, please get in the car."

Sam quickly obliged, but not before meeting Ed's gaze. He swallowed, taken aback by the amount of anger there, before he turned away as the woman shut the car door and walked around to the driver's side, started the car, and pulled away.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to in order to know that Ed was still standing there, watching him retreat, red on his clenched hands, the blood of a teammate, of a friend. Blood that Sam had spilled.

He looked out the window, face turned away from the person driving, grasping for the smallest shed of privacy as a single tear slipped down his face.

The Grayes family was not the only one that had shattered that day. He could feel his own team, the family he had built, fracturing, and he wasn't sure if it would ever be able to put itself back together.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

 _Now…_

"After that," Sam continued, "I had one of the most brutal SIU interviews I've ever had in my life. SIU investigates all lethal action," he explained upon seeing her confused look, "to make sure that proper action was taken. Sometimes it's pretty routine, more of a formality, but yesterday…" he trailed off. "Yesterday wasn't. Since I broke protocol, they really had to dig in and go at me. One of them was convinced I'd done it just for the heck of it since I wasn't given authorization by the commanding officer on scene. They finally let me go when my lawyer forced them to watch a tape of when Grayes was holding Spike hostage—a civilian captured it—but they're still looking into it.

"When I got back to the Barn, the end of shift briefing was just as bad as the SIU interview."

Libby hummed her sympathy, and though she didn't say anything, she wanted to. Wanted to say that she knew in reality that it was probably _worse_ than the SIU, because at the Barn, it was people he loved and respected that were tearing him apart.

"When it was finally over, before I left, I tried to talk to Ed, to apologize to him," Sam admitted quietly. "I don't even know what I was trying to apologize for, I just wanted to fix things. I didn't want him to be mad anymore."

He met her gaze and grimaced. "It didn't matter, because he wouldn't let me. And that's when you swooped in to save me."

Libby grinned half-heartedly. "About time I got to return the favor and save you for once."

He didn't manage to return her smile, and in fact as Libby looked at him, she was growing more and more concerned at how pale he was beneath the skin flushed from heat, and at how utterly lost he seemed.

She'd told herself her motivation for asking him about the hot call had been to help him process it, to _help him_ , but now she was wondering if it had been entirely selfish of her, that she had only wanted to satiate her own curiosity, for Sam looked no better having shared the story.

She was about to apologize, or say _something_ to recognize the trauma he'd been through, when all of a sudden a voice off to her left hissed, "Hey, how are you two doing over there?"

Libby turned to find the source of the voice was the man with the child, whom she had asked if he'd had a phone (or rather, she had mimed it, as they had not yet exchanged words, irrationally worried that breaking the silence of the square, raising one's voice too loudly, would draw the shooter's gaze).

"Uh, we're not doing so hot," she admitted, confused why this man was suddenly reaching out, and definitely a little annoyed that he was interrupting her heart to heart with Sam.

The man nodded, expecting such an answer, then continued, "That was a heck of a brave thing you did back there," he gestured towards the spot her bag had formerly been before she had bolted and grabbed it.

"Thaaaanks," she said slowly, still a little miffed. She had no need of this man's praise.

"I couldn't help but overhear that he's a cop? That you called the people working on this situation? Is there any update on that?" he asked hopefully.

Libby softened a little. She could understand the man's fear, his desire to get out of this situation with his daughter, alive and as soon as possible.

"There's no update I'm afraid," she informed the man quietly, "But I'm sure that they're working as fast as they can." _They'd better be,_ she growled internally.

The man looked crestfallen, but nodded, before looking hopeful again. "Could I perhaps borrow your phone? Mine fell out on the pavement in my scramble to get here. I'd really like to call my brother and let him know I'm okay."

Libby grimaced. As much as she wanted to grant such a comfort, she also did not want to risk losing the phone—both to battery and to a bad throw; her broken arm was her dominant side, and there was no way she would be able to accurately throw it the twenty or so feet that stood between them with her non-dominant hand. Not to mention her hand was currently keeping Sam from bleeding out—or at least, that's what she told herself, though the reality she knew was probably that it was doing very little—and that was a heck of a lot more important to her than giving someone else the opportunity to speak with a loved one.

She tried to share a look with Sam, but he simply stared down into his lap, drained.

"I'm sorry," she replied finally, "but I don't think I can make it that far, and we need it in case the SRU need to get back in touch with us."

"Okay," the man replied, obviously trying to hide his disappointment and holding his daughter a little tighter.

Libby finally turned her attention back to Sam. Speaking his name didn't get his attention however and she couldn't remove her hand from his chest to tap his cheek as she might usually, therefore she settled for resting her forehead on his and trying again. "Sam, Sam are you there?"

He shifted slightly beneath her touch, such that when she sat back on her heels, his eyes were finally meeting hers. "I'm here."

"Thank you for telling me. You're probably not going to believe me, but you did the right thing."

He didn't reply, just kept his gaze on her, unconvinced.

"And your team mates will realize that too and come around."

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "You didn't hear Ed when I called in. A night to think about it hasn't changed his mind."

"True, but he was definitely concerned about you last night when he couldn't get ahold of you," she reminded.

Once again, he didn't reply and this time started to let his gaze fall again, back to the ground in front of him, already starting to withdraw.

Desperate to keep him engaged, to keep him awake and talking, Libby finally asked what his friends should have asked yesterday the moment he walked in late. "Sam, what happened yesterday morning?"

He frowned in confusion. "I just told you—"

She shook her head. "No, I mean before that. Why were you late? Or rather, why were you not-late-but-late-by-Ed-and-Greg's-standards?"


	15. Chapter 15

**A.N.** And here we are again, still going! Thank you all for your amazing support!

.

.

.

.

* * *

When Spike and Ed re-entered the main command space, a shout drew their attention.

"Hey, Ed, Spike!" Jack called, jogging up to them with Wordy and five other men that Ed knew were part of various SRU teams, some of whom had clearly come in even though they weren't on call, just like he, Spike, Wordy and Jules had. "Troy thinks you've got something with that last call you made, Ed. Spike, he could use your assistance in looking into it."

Spike nodded and quickly hurried away.

Turning back to Ed, Jack continued, "We're headed to clear the buildings Sam identified and hopefully bring this situation to a rapid and peaceful close. I'd like you to join us; I want to speed this up and more boots on the ground will definitely do that."

Ed immediately nodded, glad that there was finally _something_ he could do to be useful. Talking with witnesses and making phone calls was important, of course, but it still left him feeling like they were no closer to resolving the situation… no closer to getting Sam out of the square and to a hospital.

After a few minutes spent reviewing blue prints of the buildings, with the first glimmer of hope lending extra bounce to their step, they jogged around the perimeter of the square, well back from the caution tape indicating the cautious estimate of the shooter's range, in order to enter the buildings from the rear.

They reached the first building Sam had identified, the tan one, and stopped outside its doors.

"Ed, Wordy, you take this building, start at the top floor and work your way down," Jack ordered, pausing outside the west most building. "Raz, Ben, start at the 20th floor and work your way up. The rest of us will head to the east building and clear it. I want us all coordinating and communicating on the same channel, so switch to channel five. I've asked Carsen and Jules to also switch to channel five; they've been scanning windows and haven't spotted anything, but we can use all the eyes we can get, and our searching might flush him out."

Ed and Wordy followed the two other men into the building, and in unspoken agreement, the two teams split apart in order to cover different stairwells.

As Ed and Wordy jogged upwards, intent on their task, Wordy was the first to break the silence.

"So, Spike must have finally talked some sense into you," he stated casually.

Since it clearly wasn't a question, more a statement of fact, Ed glanced sidelong at his friend and raised his eyebrows. "What are you psychic now? How did you know?"

Wordy let out a breathy laugh as they passed the 5th floor, "Ha, nope, not psychic, your face just isn't as apoplectic and pissed off looking anymore."

"Hey!" Ed exclaimed good naturedly. "My face did not have an 'apoplectic and pissed off' look!"

Wordy just stared at him in a silent challenge. A very small part of Ed wished the other man would trip, since Wordy's eyes were fixed on him and not on where he was going, but knew it was a foolish hope.

"Fine, but you were just as pissed off!" Ed felt the need to point out.

"Eh, yesterday yeah," Wordy agreed, "but not today, not after I had more time to think about it and realize that it was a shitty situation all around, and that we were all just trying to do the best we could."

Ed narrowed his eyes and glanced suspiciously at his friend. "Come to that conclusion on your own? Just like that? Overnight?"

"Yup," Wordy replied too quickly.

"Really?" he demanded, his tone making it clear that he didn't buy the other man's words for a second.

"Okay, no, Spike had to talk some sense into me, too," Wordy finally admitted, face breaking into a grin. "I went to the hospital last night to see how he was doing and I couldn't hide my anger at Sam from him."

Ed snorted. "When Spike wants something, he gets what he wants."

"When Spike's right, he makes others see the error of their ways," Wordy corrected. "Besides, it's kind of hard to argue with the person who was shot."

Ed had no response to that, because he fully agreed, having just come out on the losing end of an argument with the person in question. Instead, they fell into a comfortable silence as they made the rest of the climb up to the top floor and began slowly sweeping the set of offices and rooms that sat facing the square. They didn't bother also searching the other rooms on the floor; the building was supposed to be evacuated, and why would the subject move to a room without a line of sight to the square? And he clearly still had a line of sight, at least, he had a little while ago when he'd shot at the person who'd only darted out to grab their bag. It stood to reason that the subject would not have moved since then.

Just as they finished the top floor and were headed down to the next, Jules' voice sounded over the radios of those sweeping the buildings.

"Is there a team currently sweeping the 25th floor of the west building?"

Ed and Wordy paused, hand on the door from the stairwell onto the floor of the west building. The 25th floor.

Ed unmuted his mic and replied quickly, "This is Ed and Wordy, we just finished sweeping the top floor and are about to move onto the 25th, but have not yet. Raz, Ben, have you made it to the 25th?"

"No," came the quick reply. "We are currently sweeping the 21st."

"Copy that," Jules acknowledged. "Then I've got unidentified movement in the west most window of floor 25, and if it's not you all, it could be office workers who refused to follow evacuation procedure, or our subject."

"Jules, can you get any better of a visual on that movement?" Ed asked calmly, though internally he could feel his adrenaline already rising, along with another small glimmer of hope that this situation was almost over.

"I can't see into the room; the glare's a bitch and the blinds are mostly down, I wouldn't have noticed anything except that I just happened to be looking right at that window when the blinds shifted like someone bumped them. I don't think it was just movement from the air turning on or anything, because they'd still be moving if that were the case."

"Copy that, we're in the southeast stairwell about to enter the 25th floor. We'll proceed directly to the southwest office and have a look."

Quietly, they eased out of the stairwell and stalked down the hallway, pulses skyrocketing at the prospect of both encountering the subject and putting an end to this situation.

When they reached the final door on the hall, Ed motioned silently for Wordy to try the handle. The lack of movement of Wordy's wrist told him all he needed to know: locked.

He looked up at his partner, and a wordless conversation passed between them. Wordy was a wizard with lock picks, but if there _was_ someone in that room, if the _subject_ was in that room, he might hear them in the lock. On the other hand, they had not brought a hand held battering ram with them, and if they tried to breach by force and miscalculated, it may take more than one hit, again alerting the occupant that they were there.

Conversation complete, they came to a decision. Both prepared to enter, guns at the ready, with Ed off to the side of the door and Wordy a few steps back. At Ed's nod, Wordy took two steps forward and aimed a kick directly beside the door knob. Ed didn't even have time to be relieved that all it took was one blow and the door was open—cheap construction—before he surged into the room, immediately announcing their presence as SRU. His eyes swept it quickly, taking in everything in seconds: the small sitting area to the left, the bookshelves to the right, the desk directly across from the door, right up next to the window, and most importantly, the man lying on top of the desk, facing the window, eyes staring down a scope.

The noise of the door bursting open and slamming into the wall was enough to cause the man to flinch and throw a look over his shoulder, eyes widening, before he immediately turned back around, and tried to reposition his eye on the scope, looking for a target.

"SRU drop your weapon!" Ed shouted, now feeling Wordy's reassuring presence just to his side.

The man continued to lie there, eye trained down the scope, tip of the barrel swinging left and right.

"You have nowhere to go and no target to shoot in the square!" _Please let there not be a target in the square_. "But if you pull that trigger, we will be forced to take lethal action! Put your weapon down and step away from the window!" Ed ordered, moving farther into the room.

The man picked his head up ever so slightly, no longer pressing his eye against the scope. The first words out of the man's mouth were not what Ed expected. "Took you long enough," he spoke calmly, beginning to lower the gun.

Ed frowned at the man's odd choice of words, but continued to press forward. "That's it," he encouraged as the subject placed the butt of the gun on the desk, leaving it resting in its tripod. "Now slide back towards me off the desk, slowly, and keep your hands where we can see them."

Without complaint, the man did just that.

The moment his boots hit the floor, Wordy was stepping forward to cuff him, without Ed prompting. Once the man was secure, Wordy immediately conducted a full body search, but found nothing except for a phone. No ID, no keys, nothing.

"Unlock this," Wordy demanded, holding the phone out to the subject.

The man stared at him coolly and shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think I will."

"It's fine," Ed broke in, "We can deal with it when we get down to command center." He took a step back and directed into his coms, "Attention teams sweeping the buildings, the search can cease. We have found and apprehended the subject. Repeat, subject is neutralized."

A relieved chorus of "copy that" and "thank god" echoed in his ears, before he switched to the main channel and radioed the main command. "Command, we've found the subject on the 25th floor of the west building and he's in custody. We're bringing him down now. The square should be cleared for paramedics to enter and attend to the victims immediately."

"That's great news, Ed," Troy's relieved voice responded. "We'll start the evacuation process right away. Any ID on the subject? Is he talking?"

"Negative on the ID, the subject is refusing to cooperate," Ed informed the Sergeant, glaring at the former shooter, who merely stared back at him, expressionless.

"All right, well we'll figure all of that out when you get back here. And damn, all I can say is I'm glad Sam was right. You've got one hell of an officer on your team, Ed, I hope you know that."

 _Yes I do, I just hope I still will at the end of the day._ Ed was very aware that Sam might choose to walk away after the events of yesterday and today. And Ed wouldn't blame him. He just hoped dearly that Sam would have the opportunity to _make_ that choice, because if he did, then Ed would have the chance to convince him otherwise, to make amends and set things right. And more importantly, it would mean Sam was _alive_ to make that choice. Ed didn't know the full extent of Sam's injuries, but he knew they couldn't be good; he'd gone a long time without medical attention with a shot to the chest, all the while sitting in the sweltering heat and sun.

"All right, let's move," Wordy ordered the subject.

The two SRU officers began to escort him down the hallway, but as Ed glanced at the man's face, he was disturbed that the man was no longer expressionless; he was smiling. Not just smiling, _grinning._ It disturbed him, and he couldn't help thinking back to the man's first words. _'Took you long enough.'_ What an odd thing to say after being caught… As much as Ed wanted to believe this was over, were they missing something?

"Hey, cut that out," he snapped. "You've got nothing to be happy about."

But the man just kept smiling.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** At last, some resolution... maybe? Sorry, not sorry! :)


	16. Chapter 16

"Gotcha!" Spike crowed tossing his headset onto the desk in triumph as he ended a phone call which had given him the exact answer he'd been anticipating. Picking his head up, his eyes immediately searched for Troy, prepared to share the news. His gaze caught on a bit of a commotion in the center of the room and he leapt up and headed straight for it. "Sergeant Westin! I've got something!"

Sure enough, Troy was in the middle of a throng of people whose faces had once been tense and focused, but now were now beginning to break out into cautious smiles. Clearly Spike had missed something.

By the time he had forced his way into the center, Troy was looking for him.

"Sergeant Westin? Has something happened?" Spike asked cautiously, desperately wanting to give in to the temptation of believing that something good was about to come of this day, but unable to let himself believe that just yet, not after everything that had gone wrong not just during this hot call, but in the last thirty-six hours.

"Yes, Constable Scarlatti, but you first. What have you got?"

"The call that Ed made, the one that discovered one of the hostages was scheduled to be in the square today, I just found out that not only was he the _only_ person who was planning on being in the square, it's a weekly standing meeting."

Troy grinned. "So if out theory is correct, then you just found the target."

"Exactly. He's a criminal court judge, a Ben Gaskill, so I've already been looking through his cases, trying to see if someone was recently released, trying to look for someone with a vendetta, but haven't gotten any hits yet, so I still don't know exactly _why_ he'd be a target let alone who would be targeting him."

"Well, you can ask the subject yourself."

"Pardon me?"

"That's what just happened before you came, Lane and Wordsworth radioed that they found the subject and apprehended him."

"They found the…" Spike trailed off, unable to believe his ears. _It's finally over?_ "So the situation is secure? They're going to start pulling hostages out of the square?"

Troy nodded. "Just as soon as we can bring EMS up to the front. We kept them standing-by well back of the square, per protocol."

"Then do you mind if—"

Spike didn't even have to finish before Troy cut him off and pointed towards the square. "Go. Go see to your teammate. Anything back here can wait."

"Th-thank you!" Spike sputtered, before taking off for the door, only pausing long enough to shout over his shoulder, "And send those EMTs as fast as you can!"

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Jack heard the call come in from Ed and Wordy that they'd apprehended the subject and couldn't stop himself from letting out a relieved sigh.

His partner, Travis, slapped him on the back, sharing in his relief. "Glad to have that one done with. This has been a hell of a day."

Jack nodded his agreement. "To say the least."

Without needing to communicate their intentions, they both headed to the west stairwell. Jogging down from the 23rd floor where they had been searching, as they passed the entrance to the 21st, Jack stopped in his tracks and watched in surprise as the door into the hallway from the stairwell slowly finished the last few inches of its journey closed. Which meant someone had just passed through it, only moments before.

The lack of echoes in the stairwell meant whoever had passed through the door had not done so to exit the floor and enter the stairwell, but had gone from the stairs _into_ the hallway.

Jack's partner was already moving to look through the porthole in the door. He turned back to Jack and shook his head.

Now Jack was wondering if they'd both imagined it. After all, they'd cleared this floor already, as well as the floor above and below it, and he knew their partner team searching the upper floors had fully cleared the 25th and 24th when the call came in.

But no, he knew they hadn't both just imagined it. The door had clearly been closing. And given how slowly and quietly the doors closed—Jack had to admire the design—it was possible whoever had passed through it had already made it into a room out of sight of the stairwell door before Jack and Travis arrived there… all that left was, who was it?

"Hey, Burg and Donovan, what floor are you on?" he queried into the coms, thinking perhaps the team searching the upper floors had doubled back this way.

"What are you talking about, Rivers?" replied a confused voice. "Lane said they got the subject; we're in the east stairwell headed down."

"So you haven't set foot on the 21st floor?"

"Negative. Wasn't that your floor to search?"

"Yeah, yeah, Travis and I are just going to investigate something."

At his nod, Travis opened the now closed door and they proceeded down the hall.

 _Maybe it was a civilian?_ Jack wondered hopefully. _Someone who returned to their office to retrieve something? That's gotta be what it was._

Nevertheless, he and Travis proceeded quietly into the hall, checking doors as they went. And despite everything in him wanting to believe that everything was all right, that this was a false alarm, he couldn't deny the fact that something about it was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Libby's head shot up when she heard a voice loudly announce through a megaphone, "Attention those in the square. You are no longer under threat. The shooter has been apprehended, please exit the square safely and slowly. You will be directed to the nearest medical and official personnel, where you will be treated and your statement taken. If you are unable to exit on your own, please remain where you are and medical personnel will attend to you expediently."

"Oh my god, do you hear that, Sam?" she demanded, unable to contain her excitement. "This is almost over!"

"Y-yeah, I heard. 'M shot, Libby, not deaf," he retorted weakly.

She snapped her gaze back to him, eyes narrowed.

He raised an eyebrow. "T-too soon for a joke?"

She pursed her lips. "That was a pretty weak joke, Sam." She thought about it for a minute. "In fact, it wasn't even a joke."

She continued meeting his gaze, thankful that he was alert enough to at least attempt levity, until her eyes travel farther down and she saw with dismay that he was bleeding again.

"Dammit! It's about time those EMTs got in here!" she exclaimed,

"Time, yeah," he muttered, eyes slipping down to focus on a blemish in the pavement. "'S about time," he repeated to no one in particular.

She frowned, aware that his speech was starting to slur. "Sa—" she started to call, trying to get his attention again, when she was startled by a person crashing to the ground next to them on Sam's other side.

For one shining moment, she thought it was the EMTs, but her hopes were quickly dashed when she actually got a look at the person and realized it was the man and his young daughter who had been sheltering just a little ways from them, the one who had asked to borrow her phone.

"How can I help?" he demanded, setting his daughter beside him.

Libby stared at him for a moment, unable to comprehend that finally it was no longer just Sam and her, but that someone else was here to help.

"I know he's not doing so well, and it'd be an honor to help the person responsible for the 'Soaring Save,' not to mention what you both have done today—I know you two are the reason they found the shooter so quickly. And I've… I've never felt so helpless as I did when I was just crouched over there, waiting for the next shot… so how can I help?"

"Uh, okay, um, could you maybe take over," she nodded to where her one good hand was applying pressure to Sam's chest. With two hands, she hoped he would be able to provide more.

"Oh, of course," he agreed immediately, quickly covering the hand on her blood soaked jacket with his own.

"Thanks," she murmured, slowly removing her hand, which shook, not just from the effort she'd been expending holding it there, but from fear, too.

She let her good hand rest in her lap, next to her broken arm, and stared at the now drying red stain coating it, willing it to stop trembling.

"I'm Ben," the man told her, clearly trying to break the awkward silence that had fallen.

"Libby, and this is Sam," she gestured to her friend, who was still staring at the pavement, occasionally mumbling something incoherent.

"You two make a hell of a team," Ben told her.

She may have smiled in acknowledgement, she wasn't sure, because it was getting a little difficult for her to focus. Her eyes roved and fell on her phone, which still sat beside Sam.

She slowly reached for it and unlocked it. The screen immediately told her she had over forty missed calls and unread texts. She knew they were all from her parents—no one else had her number yet. She felt guilty that she still hadn't contact them, but keeping Sam alive had been a little more important than telling her parents she was alive but still in a dangerous situation. And with only one good hand, she hadn't been able to do both.

Now she had a hand free, however, so without checking the texts or voicemails, she sent a quick message letting them know she was okay and that she'd be out soon. And that she loved them.

She hit send, blinking back tears. She'd stopped herself from reading any of the texts or calling them, knowing that if she had, her control would shatter and the tears and panic that was starting to trickle its way into her system now that she no longer had to hold it all together, now that it was over, would become a full blown roar and she'd break down. And she couldn't do that. Not yet.

She looked up and offered the phone to Ben. "I now you wanted to call your brother…"

Ben shook his head. "That's okay, I can wait." He paused before continuing in a ramble clearly meant to fill the silence once more, "Who knew today would turn out like this? I come here every weekend, and never could have imagined…"

Libby nodded along as if she were listening, but tuned him out, instead eying the commotion at the edge of the square, waiting for a pair of EMTs to burst through, headed towards them.

She felt Sam shift slightly next to her, but did not drop her gaze from the edge, willing a team to come forward. No one did.

"Come on, come on, can't you move any faster?" she hissed under her breath.

Sam shifted again, this time his hand brushed her leg.

She turned her attention back to him to find that he was no longer staring at the pavement, but trying to look her straight in the eyes; his gaze was unfocused, however, and kept slipping away.

"Time," he murmured. "Th-there-sn't enough time."

Libby's heart almost stopped as the weight of those words sank in. "No, no, you are _not_ saying goodbye, Sam!" she hissed vehemently, reaching to take his hand in hers. "There's plenty of time, we have all the time in the world, you're going to hold on just a little longer," she ordered, leaning towards him as if she could force him to stay with her.

He shifted more, clearly becoming agitated.

The panic she'd been successfully beating back until now started to win. "Hey, stop that! You're going to make it worse, you're going to hurt yourself!" she cried.

"I's about time. T'fast, was too fast, L-Lib," he rambled, pulling his hand from hers which felt like a betrayal, until he rested his hand on her leg and started weakly tapping an odd rhythm she wasn't familiar with.

She stared at his hand as it finished its fourteenth tap and lay still, desperately trying to figure out what he was trying to tell her. "I don't understand, Sam, what do you mean?" she whispered, unable to stop a tear from slipping down her cheek as her friend, her hero, became increasingly agitated and incoherent, only muttering that it had been too fast. Libby couldn't disagree more; ever since the first shot rang out, thing had been moving too slowly. If only she'd run for her bag earlier, if only they'd been able to speak with the SRU sooner, if only the SRU had been able to move a little faster, then maybe, maybe Sam wouldn't be fading before her eyes.

She couldn't change the past, but she could speed things up now. She looked up at Ben who was watching their exchange with confusion. "I'm going to go kick some peoples' rears into gear and get them out here," she snapped, starting to rise.

Sam's hand snatched hers again and pulled with surprising strength, forcing her back to the ground.

"No!" he whispered hoarsely, clearly trying to yell, but unable to as his energy continued to leak out with his blood. "Stay down!"

"Sam," she extricated her hand from his to place it on his face, unable to stop the tears from pouring down her face, "Sam, it's over. It's over," she sobbed.

And finally, finally he met her eyes, gaze fixed on hers. "No. P-please, please," he begged. His eyes were sharp once more; no longer unfocused, they were imploring her to listen and full of panic at the fact that he couldn't communicate with her.

Even though his words were practically incoherent and she didn't understand his panic, she knew this was not just someone losing it: to blood loss, to heat, or to stress. No, this was Sam, who was _always_ trying to look out for her. And even though she didn't understand the why behind his request, she still trusted him completely. With her life.

She settled back down. "Okay, Sam, okay."

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Jack and Travis reached the first closed door on the hall. All of the other rooms' doors had been open, and they'd searched them quickly, without finding a soul.

They stopped outside this door, and Jack placed his hand on the knob, slowly turning it, all the while asking himself, _what are you doing? It's over._ But a small part of him whispered, _no, it's not._

As he slowly opened the door, he heard movement inside. The slightest scuff, perhaps a shoe on the floor, or an elbow on a desk.

 _It has to be a civilian, someone who got scared and hid under their desk, or came back for their laptop_. But the part that had just whispered that it wasn't over, was telling him, _that's not a civilian._

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Ben stared at her in confusion as she settled back onto the pavement. "Sam needs help and the EMTs aren't getting here fast enough. If you won't go, I will."

Libby shook her head. "I don't know why, but I don't think that's a good idea."

"That's ridiculous, I'll just run and get them and bring them here," he stated, starting to rise to his feet.

Sam's other hand, the one not holding onto Libby, shot out and grabbed the collar of the man's shirt. Ben was surprised by Sam's actions, and was pulled off balance, falling slightly towards Sam as he continued to try to get to his feet, which jerked Sam upward, bringing their heads almost level as he was lifted partway off the ground, holding onto Ben with strength he should not have had.

Libby's lips parted in a protest, because Sam should _not_ be moving, but even though she knew words left her lips, for a moment she didn't hear anything. Nothing. Then a spray of something warm, wet and red struck her face and she watched in horror as Sam's head snapped to the side.

Then she heard the shot. A shot that tore through her heart as much as it did through the air.

And she screamed.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.** Please do not hate me. I recognize this is probably the worst offending cliffhanger I have thus far inflicted upon you all... I promise I won't make you all wait too long!

Kudos to you all who figured out there was a second shooter from the last chapter :) And as always, thank you for your kind words and sticking with this story!


	17. Chapter 17

**A.N.** All right, before you all come for me with pitchforks—or veggies and rotted turnips, which I have to say, is not something I've been threatened with before :D —here is the next chapter!

As always, thank you **sooooo** much for your support and sticking with this! I'm so glad you are still enjoying it and—hopefully—do not hate me too much and enjoy this next chapter ;)

.

.

.

.

* * *

Ed jerked in surprise when he heard a shot as he and Wordy escorted the subject out of the building and into open air. It was such a completely unexpected sound.

The shot echoed, bouncing off building walls and reverberating long after whatever bullet that had been fired finished its trajectory… Ed could only hope it had missed its target. The shot had clearly come from the square, the opposite side of the building from where they were, therefore Ed was not concerned _they_ were being shot at. But he was concerned and disturbed about the laughter that arose from the throat of the man standing between him and Wordy. An ugly, throaty laugh that sent an involuntary shiver down Ed's spine.

"What the hell was that?" Wordy demanded, sharing a stunned look with Ed.

"What do you know?" Ed shouted at the subject, shaking him by the scruff of his neck.

Suddenly their radios came to life, full of shouting, of someone screaming to freeze and drop the weapon. Sounds of a scuffle could be heard, followed by more shouting, before finally silence fell.

"Jack? Rivers?" Ed prompted urgently, having recognized his voice as the one doing the shouting. "What's going on?"

"There… there was a second shooter," Jack finally explained, voice breathless. "He moved to the 21st floor of the building we were searching and he managed to get a shot off."

Ed and Wordy shared a shell-shocked look. _What the hell, are you kidding me? A second shooter? One wasn't enough?! And if there was a second shooter, what if there's a third?_ "Who was he shooting at? Who was still in the square? Was anyone hit?"

"We—we don't know, but I think so; the square definitely wasn't clear."

Beside them, their apprehended subject crowed in jubilation, clearly having heard the words over the coms. "Oh man, the back-up plan paid off! I knew he could do it! You all were so perfectly predictable!" He frowned then. "Though you weren't supposed to find him. That wasn't part of the plan… how'd you manage that?" he asked, honest curiosity and confusion on his face.

"'How'd we manage…'" Ed repeated in disbelief. "You think we're going to answer your questions? Are you insane!?" _He probably is._ "That's not how this works! We do the questioning, you do the answering!" And there were so many questions they needed answers to—who are you, what were you doing here, who was the target, who is the second shooter—but the most important one… "Are there more of you?" he demanded, grabbing the front of the man's shirt collar in both hands and jerking him close.

The man laughed again. "Once bitten twice shy, right? You though you got us when you found me, so you dropped your guard, and now you've paid the price."

The man's words sent another shudder down Ed's spine, because he knew the man was right… they had paid a price. He just hoped that the price was not going to take a friend away from him.

"Ed, he's not going to talk," Wordy spoke quietly. "We should get him back, see what else we can do."

Ed nodded and they took off at a sprint for the command center, dragging the still cackling subject with them.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Spike was jogging towards what he knew was Sam and Libby's location, though he could not yet see them from his current vantage; the concrete planter that had been their saving grace still blocked his view. He was just thirty feet away when he glanced over his shoulder to see if paramedics were following. He was pleased to see a pair just rushing out from the surrounding building, carrying a backboard between them. When he turned back to Sam and Libby, he heard a commotion rise from out of sight behind the planter, then saw the head and shoulders of who he immediately recognized as Ben Gaskill start to rise into view as he clearly tried to stand. Spike frowned, wondering what the hell the man was doing with Sam and Libby, then he saw the man stumble and get jerked back down a bit, before he tried to straighten once more. And that's when Spike got his first glimpse of Sam, as he was pulled upwards by the judge, due to Sam's hand fisted in the front of the man's shirt. This all happened in the matter of a second, just long enough for Spike to take a quicker step in order to intervene in what appeared to be a developing altercation, but he halted in his tracks, feet planted on the hot concrete of the square, heart pounding as his friend's head whipped to the side and both Gaskill and Sam fell from view.

A shot echoed in his ears.

For half a second, Spike stood there stupidly, trying to process this turn of events. He knew _what_ had just happened, he just couldn't understand _how_ it had happened, when the subject had already been caught.

Once that half a second had passed, his instinct told him to drop to the ground, but instead, Spike threw himself forward, casting all thoughts of his own safety out of his head. It didn't matter how it had happened, all that mattered right now was getting to Sam. Who Spike knew without a doubt had just been shot. For the second time.

As he rounded the corner of the planter, already flinging his sling to the ground, ignoring the angry pull in his shoulder as he stretched healing muscles and fresh stitches, he could not have prepared himself for the scene before him.

Ben Gaskill sat on the ground, young daughter now clinging to one of his arms, one leg awkwardly bent beneath him, mumbling incoherently and staring blankly at the two figures in front of him. At Libby and Sam.

Sam lay on the ground on his back, knees slightly bent and falling to one side, twisting his torso. Libby crouched next to him, scrabbling at his head and screaming something that Spike didn't comprehend. Because even as his body reacted instinctively and carried him swiftly forward, pulling off his gray outer shirt, ripping stitches as he went—he didn't care, what did a few stitches matter in the face of this?—he couldn't get past the amount of blood on Sam's face, and what that blood meant. Logically, he'd known that since Sam's head had been what was in his view, it was also what would have been in the shooter's view, but he'd hoped…

It had been a foolish hope.

He fell to his knees on the opposite side of Sam from Libby, already wadding up his shirt and reaching to offer assistance. Libby seemed to be struggling to get a hold of Sam's head, unable to hold it still or brace it in order to staunch the flow of blood, as only one of her hands was working and it kept slipping due to the fact that her other hand seemed sluggish and unable to move properly. At first Spike didn't understand why, but then he saw that the forearm of her sluggish arm wasn't straight and kept moving in ways it shouldn't be able to. He winced in sympathy, recognizing the broken arm for what it was, but then his attention shifted from Libby to Sam, and his heart dropped at the sight of how easily Sam's head lolled in the young woman's hands.

"Libby, Libby let me," Spike told the panicking young woman gently, already moving his hands to replace hers on Sam's head.

Libby's wild eyes flashed up to look at him, and he could tell that until he'd said something, she hadn't realized he was there.

"Sp-Spike," she stammered, heart in her eyes, "I can't stop it—he—there's so much blood, his head—"

"I know," he acknowledged, amazed at how calm he sounded, because inside he was screaming. "I know, but it's going to be okay,"— _liar,_ he whispered inside, _you don't know that. You can't promise that. He's shot, Spike… he's not going to be okay…_ He forced those thoughts from his mind before continuing, "I've got his head, you get his chest."

She nodded furiously and shifted so that one of her hands was placing pressure on Sam's chest, on a wad of cloth Spike thought may once have been a light blue sports jacket, but now was maroon and red with blood. Her other arm now dangled uselessly at her side, a dark purple bruise coloring the forearm to match the color of the jacket.

Spike looked back down at Sam as he pressed his shirt against the side of Sam's head. He swallowed when he felt a very slight give beneath his fingers, and yet Sam remained completely limp in his hands, eyes closed, face so coated in blood it was hard to see anything else.

"Spike I-I-I don't know what happened. I th-thought they got the shooter," Libby stammered, eyes wide. "I thought it was over, I told Sam it was over, that we were going home and now—he-he tried to tell me, he tried and…"

"I don't know what happened, but it's going to be okay."

"Spike, he was shot in the head!" she exclaimed wildly, the note of desperation and terror clear in her voice.

"I know!" Spike shouted, unable to keep his voice from rising in response, his own fear making it sharper than it should have been. "I know, but," he searched desperately for something to cling to, one small shred of hope, and his eyes landed on Sam's chest. Beneath the horrifying mess that was his wound, Spike could see that Sam's chest was still rising and falling. "But he's still breathing, Libby," he finished more quietly. _That's got to count for something… please._

At that moment, it finally registered in his brain that the murmur he'd been hearing for the past minute was Ben quietly repeating some iteration of the same question, over and over.

"I don't understand, how did he know? How did he know it was me?"

Spike had no idea. _He'd_ figured it out. But he'd had countless resources at his fingertips and had had to speak with numerous people in order to confirm his suspicions. How Sam had figured it out when he had _no_ resources except for his wits, while slowly overheating and bleeding out, he couldn't even fathom.

He couldn't answer the man's question, but he could try to distract him. "Sir? Sir, are you okay?" he asked loudly. The last thing he wanted to do was turn his attention away from Sam, but he couldn't ignore someone so clearly in shock.

Ben's gaze shifted from Sam's prone form to Spike. "No," he replied shakily. "I mean, I'm not hurt, but I'm not okay," he clarified.

"Okay, okay, that's good. How about you?" he asked more quietly, meeting eyes with Ben's daughter. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head slowly, eyes wide.

"Is," Ben started, then stopped. His eyes cleared a little, losing some of the blank, uncomprehending stare. And then they filled with worry and panic. Though he'd been staring at Sam for the past few minutes, it seemed he hadn't fully comprehended the situation until that moment. "Oh god," he breathed, hand unconsciously grabbing his little girl and pulling her closer, turning her away from the sight in front of them. "Oh god is he…. What can I do?"

Unfortunately, Spike couldn't answer that question either. Because he didn't think there was anything that _could_ be done, not until actual medical professionals arrived. That thought caused him to raise his head enough to look over the planter, back the way he'd come, uncaring that it also likely put him back in the line of fire. He reasoned that if he hadn't been hit in the time it took him to get to Sam and Libby after Sam had been hit, that there wasn't going to be another shot.

He found that the backboard the EMTs had been carrying was now abandoned, the EMTs likely having fled back out of the square once the shot had been fired. Spike couldn't really blame them, but nevertheless, he couldn't fully swallow his disappointment.

Libby apparently caught onto what had drawn his eye. "No, they can't leave, he's been waiting too long! He doesn't have time! Call them," she ordered him, glaring at the headset still on his head, "get them in here now."

He shook his head. "It won't do any good, they're not going to let EMTs in to a scene that might still be active."

Libby stared at him, eyes full of disbelief, not only at the current situation, but at the fact that it so closely mirrored one from three years ago, when Sam had also been fighting for his life but unable to receive care due to a potentially active shooter. Only this time… this time Libby couldn't run in and save the day at the last minute. And they both knew it. All she and Spike could do was sit and wait.

Libby's gaze returned to Sam. "Then he's going to die," she whispered, the first tear slipping down her face.

Spike's heart seized at her words. Libby had always maintained unfailing optimism three years ago, had clung to the possibility that Sam would make it as if that were the only option. If she was losing hope now… Well, Spike certainly couldn't blame her. The toll it must have taken to be the one beside Sam as he slowly bled out, to feel like you were the only one keeping Sam from slipping away… Spike understood that, because he was now experiencing it as his hands cradled Sam's head. So while he couldn't blame her for finally voicing the despair she must have been feeling since the first shot was fired—despair that he had to admit was coiling like a disease inside him as well—he could only hope and pray that she was wrong. But the despair kept worming its way under his skin and burrowing into his thoughts, because as he stared down at Sam, he couldn't help but flash back to a moment years before when it was Sam rushing to a fallen soldier who had taken a bullet to the head, hands quickly becoming covered in blood as Spike's were now. He swallowed.

They'd almost lost Sam that day. Not to a bullet that had hit him, and not because they'd turned their backs on him, but nevertheless, Spike couldn't help but see the parallels. He remembered all too clearly the fear he felt when he walked into the locker room and found Sam's locker cleaned out, the stuff sitting in a bag on the bench. He'd been terrified that he was about to lose his friend.

And today, that morning, he'd felt that fear again once he'd realized how bad it had been between Sam and the rest of the Team after the hot call. And he knew that there was a very real possibility that it would happen again, that he'd get to the Barn only to find all of Sam's stuff gone. And Spike done everything he could to get in touch with his friend to keep that from happening. To keep from losing Sam to some careless actions and words meant to hurt.

Now, hours later, he _wished_ it were only words that threatened to take his friend from him.

But it wasn't just words now, it was so much worse than that. It was a pair of bullets, the sun and time. And despite his best efforts, his mind kept going back to that day in the arena, to the face coated in blood, to the soldier who'd taken a headshot and hadn't made it.

 _No._ Spike could not let himself go there. That soldier hadn't made it, but he'd be damned if this soldier, his friend, wouldn't.

He could do nothing more for Sam's physical wounds, but perhaps there was something he could do to start healing the non-physical wounds Team One had inflicted on their comrade. The ones that had caused self-doubt to creep into Sam's thoughts, had caused him to question his place in the team. In their family.

Perhaps Sam wouldn't hear him. But Spike had to try.

He leaned down, getting his mouth right near one of Sam's ears, the one not drenched in blood and covered by the makeshift bandage. "Hey Samtastic, you need to listen to me. You need to listen really hard. You've done your job. You've done more than your job." He let out a broken chuckle. "Buddy, yesterday, you literally went above and beyond, and I didn't think you could top that, but this today, this was something else. And I need you to know that you did good, yesterday included. You made all the right decisions. You protected me, you protected Ed, you protected Libby," he glanced up and met her eyes, "and you protected Ben Gaskill," he glanced at the man who was now holding his daughter and looking at Sam with intensity, as if he could will Sam to stay with them just by staring. "We're all okay," Spike continued softly, telling his friend what he thought he needed to hear. What Spike _needed_ him to hear. "But now we need you to be okay." _Please, please Sam, please._ "So you need to hang in there, okay? You need to stay with us, because if you don't…" he paused a moment to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, using the pain to focus. "…because if you don't, I, we are not going to be okay, do you hear me?"

And then there was nothing more he could do but wait and hope, which was something he'd been doing all day; waiting to get out of the hospital and hoping he wasn't too late to fix things between Sam and the team… waiting for Sam to call back—which he never would—and hoping he could find Sam in time… waiting for a crack to appear in this case so they could all go home and hoping that Sam would make it out alive…

… and now, waiting and hoping that someone would come help them soon, because Sam was dying in his hands.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** I remain unrepentant about the cliffhangers... mostly.


	18. Chapter 18

**A.N.** And on we go! You all are wonderful!

A quick note, I am not a medical professional, nor do I work in a hospital, nor do I have direct experience/knowledge of hospital procedures. I have researched protocol, for both paramedics and hospitals, and done my best to keep things as realistic as possible, but this is a work of fiction and you may have to suspend disbelief. Please forgive any glaring medical errors.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Ed and Wordy burst through the doors of the command center, immediately locating officers to take custody of the subject. Ed could not suppress a feeling of relief as he was able to put distance between himself and the obviously deranged man.

"Troy!" he called. The Sergeant turned to look at him. "First subject's in custody but not talking. What's the status?"

"Rivers is bringing the second subject in as we speak. The second subject has been a little more talkative, or rather, should we say 'verbally explosive.' Seems even after that long wait, he missed his intended target."

 _Small mercies,_ Ed mentally sighed in relief, unaware that in moments, he would realize just how wrong he was.

"Rivers is fairly confident given the subject's speech that there is not a third shooter, but until we know that for sure, we can't finish clearing the square," Troy explained, voice laced with something Ed couldn't quite pin down.

Ed frowned. He'd known there must have been one or two people left in the square for the second subject to target—why else would he have shot?—and he'd known the risk of another shooter might slow things down, but the true consequences of that hadn't yet clicked… That whoever was still in the square was basically back in a hostage situation. "Who's left in the square? What's their condition? With this heat, Troy, I'm not sure how much longer people can last…" he trailed off, unsettled by Troy's expression, and he suddenly realized that Troy's voice had been apologetic. There was only one reason Troy would feel he owed Ed and Wordy any sort of personal apology, beyond just general regret for the situation itself. _No… No!_

Ed's dawning comprehension must have shown on his face, because Troy nodded and grimaced. "There are only a few people left, and it's not the heat I'm worried about." He hesitated, before confirming the horrible conclusion Ed had already leapt to. "Ed, it's Braddock," he admitted. "He's still out there, along with Libby Riles, Ben Gaskill and his daughter, and Scarlatti."

Ed could only stare at Troy. "Sam? Sam is still out there? And Spike?" he demanded in disbelief. "Why the hell wasn't he one of the first ones out?! He was critically injured!"

Wordy jerked in surprise beside him, and Ed belatedly realized that Wordy probably hadn't known Sam was injured until that moment. He regretted Wordy finding out that way, but currently had more pressing issues at hand.

"I had to keep the paramedics well back from the front lines," Troy tried to explain. "It's protocol. It took them time to make it up here, while everyone else was able bodied enough to make it out of the square."

"And Spike's out there?" Wordy queried softly.

Troy nodded. "After you two apprehended the first subject, Spike requested he be permitted to go out there, and thinking that it was over, I let him. But not before he passed along the information regarding the victim you followed up on, Ed. Ben Gaskill. We're confident he was the intended target."

Ed connected the dots.

"And you said Gaskill is still out there. But the second shot didn't hit him?"

Troy shook his head slowly. "No… but from what we can piece together, it was meant to, except Braddock intervened. I have no idea how he knew, but it appears he did, and he pulled Gaskill out of the line of fire. Only thing is, he was hit in the process."

"What?" a new voice queried from behind Ed.

Turning quickly, he spotted Jules, who had just returned from her Sierra perch.

"Sam was shot?" she demanded.

Troy nodded.

 _Shot a_ _ **second**_ _time,_ Ed added silently, since apparently Jules also did not know about Sam's initial injury. Ed swung his eyes out to the square, though he could see nothing from here. "And now the paramedics can't get him out until you clear _all_ of the surrounding buildings. Troy, that will take hours," he finished quietly.

"I know."

Ed stood in silent disbelief, unable to come to terms with the fact that after all this, they still could do nothing to help Sam.

"To hell with that," he growled, turning to the pair of paramedics he'd noticed standing back of the group. "If we get him to you, can you be prepared to get him to the hospital as soon as humanly possible?"

"Of course," one of them nodded vigorously. "We'll be waiting right out there with our rig and gurney," she gestured to a side alley that ran between buildings, "and you'll need the backboard we dropped on our way into the square," she pointed it out to him.

Ed moved towards the doors that would take him into the square, feeling Wordy and Jules fall into place beside him without question.

"Ed, what are you doing," Troy demanded. "I can't let you all go in there!"

Ed had already let Sam down too many times in the past thirty-six hours; he'd be damned if he would do it again. Sam had undoubtedly saved his life yesterday, and he'd done nothing but yell at him. The least he could do now was try… try to save the life of one of the best men he had ever known.

"Just try and stop us," Ed challenged, as he pushed the door open.

Ed had broken protocol to try to save a life yesterday, the life of someone he didn't even know. He was damn well going to do the same to save his friend.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

When Spike heard multiple sets of rapid footsteps approach, he thought his ears were deceiving him. But when he looked up, his eyes were met with the glorious sight of Ed, Wordy and Jules rounding the corner with a backboard in hand. The only sight that would have been more glorious would have been EMTs, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Spike was not ashamed to say that he'd been mentally begging, pleading for someone, _anyone_ to help them.

"Oh thank god," he whispered as his team approached.

He could tell the moment they got their first look at Sam, for he could see in their eyes the shock and horror that had been reflected in his own, was probably still reflected in his own. To their credit, they did not freeze, they continued forward to kneel beside him, around their fallen team member, but their faces were stricken.

"Oh god, Sam," Wordy murmured, hands trembling as he laid the backboard down, eyes drawn to the bloody mess that was formerly Spike's shirt, pressed desperately against the side of Sam's head. "Is he—"

"He's alive," Spike snapped— _for now,_ he couldn't stop himself from adding silently—unable to let Wordy complete his query. "But he is not good." _Wow, Spike, way to understate it…_ "Where are the EMTs?" he asked—though he thought already knew the answer—because Sam needed medical assistance _yesterday_.

"They're waiting for us at the edge of the square; they can't come in to an active scene, we're not even supposed to be here, but like hell were we going to leave you two on your own, not after everything…" Wordy trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence, as everyone knew what he was referencing.

"All right, Spike, you keep your hold on Sam," Ed ordered, resuming his usual role of authority, trying to infuse some form of normality into a situation that was so far beyond normal, "the rest of us are going to shift him on three, and then we're getting the hell out of here. And you three," he turned to the three civilians, "we're fairly confident the scene is safe, but cannot guarantee it. You can take your chances and come with us, or wait until you get the go ahead, which may not come for hours." He turned away without waiting for a response, knowing everything they were doing was so far beyond protocol. "Okay, one, two, three!"

And then they were up and running, no thought for their own safety. Spike was unsurprised to find Libby running just behind him and to his right, but he wasn't sure if Ben Gaskill and his daughter had also decided to risk it.

When they reached the edge of the square and took a few more steps into an alley, they found an ambulance and two paramedics waiting for them, gurney at the ready.

As gently but quickly as possible, Team One placed Sam on the waiting gurney.

"He has a GSW to the chest and head," Spike explained breathlessly, trying to give them as much information as possible. "The one to the chest occurred at the beginning of the incident, but the one to the head only just happened. He's lost a lot of blood, and has been unresponsive since the second shot, but I don't know if he lost consciousness before then. Libby?" he prompted.

"He was conscious and with it until a few minutes before the head wound. Maybe what, 10 minutes ago? Then he started to slur his words, but he didn't lose consciousness until the bullet—until the bullet hit him in the head."

Spike did not let go of his grip on Sam's head as one paramedic began examining Sam, while the other immediately began unpacking supplies.

"Sir, I need you to move back," the woman told Spike, her tone one of authority.

"But," he trailed off, staring at his hands, his hands which were desperately pressed against the side of Sam's head, cradling his friend, afraid that if he let go, if he lost touch with Sam, that his friend would slip away between one instant and the next.

"I know, but I need to be able to treat him and I can't do that with you in the way." She looked him dead in the eyes and told him, "I've got him, sir. He's not going anywhere yet."

 _Yet…_ that word made Spike's heart clench, but it was all he could hold onto right now. _Yet._ And Spike let go.

Immediately, her hands were there, pressing and prodding, before covering the area with a white bandage that quickly lost its pristine color.

"How does it look, Lynn?" the other EMT asked.

Spike looked up to see her partner treating the wound on Sam's chest.

"Looks like he may have been lucky, the head might just be a graze, but we _have_ to stop its bleeding."

A hand crept into Spike's, and he didn't have to look to know whose it was. Someone who was hoping just like he was that this wasn't it. Libby's hand squeezed his, and he squeezed back just as hard.

Lynn rattled off Sam's vitals as she checked him and while Spike did not understand some of the specifics, what he could pick out, he did not like the sound of. _Elevated temperature. Sluggish pupils. BP low and dropping._ "Bill, he needs a line in _yesterday_."

"It's in!"

"All right, pack him up, we need to get him to the hospital now."

As the duo loaded Sam into the rig, Libby pulled her hand from Spike's and stepped forward, clearly intent on joining her friend.

Spike put out a hand to stop her.

She looked up at him in betrayal.

"Libby, your parents are worried sick and you need medical treatment," he gestured at her dangling arm, amazed that she was still standing as he was pretty sure the bones were broken clean through, though they hadn't pierced her skin, thankfully. "And they're going to have their hands full with Sam."

"Bullshit! You just don't want me to see," she accused.

Spike didn't deny her accusation, because she was right. But she reluctantly backed away as Spike stepped into the ambo instead and the doors closed, Spike's last glimpse of her was her standing with half of Team One, all of whom looked stunned and lost.

Once the doors shut, the ambulance began moving at what felt like a glacial pace, all the while Lynn continued to treat Sam.

"Sir do you know how to check a pulse?" she demanded, making eye contact.

Spike nodded.

"Excellent. I want you to keep your fingers on his neck and track his pulse. The minute it stops, you tell me."

Spike placed shaking fingers on the pulse point, glad he had something to do, but terrified at the fact that she'd said it like Sam's heart stopping was inevitable, not just a possibility.

He could only watch and wait as he felt Sam slipping away, each beat coming faster and weaker, while Lynn did everything in her power to keep Sam alive.

Just as she finished bandaging Sam's chest, Spike felt it stop. Felt Sam's heart stop. He waited a moment, adjusted the position of his fingers, searching desperately, before admitting the truth.

"No pulse," he croaked.

She swore. "I need you to begin compressions, sir," she ordered as she pulled out an AED. "Bill, how far out are we?!"

"Three minutes!"

"Make it two!"

Spike immediately moved to comply. He'd always been unnerved by the ease with which ribs bent under compression, had always feared he would push too hard, but that fear was nothing to what he felt as he worked on Sam, as he worked to do what Sam's heart could not.

 _Oh god._

The next moments became a blur as he continued compressions while she attached the leads of the AED and instructed him to move away. They held their breath as Sam's body jerked.

 _Please._

Spike's hope evaporated as Lynn resumed compressions.

(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)

Libby could only stand in shock, lost, as the ambulance screamed away from her, the ambulance carrying someone who had changed her life in so many ways. A friend whom, up until a few days ago, she'd thought she might never see again for reasons of safety. And then she'd been able to spend less than twenty-four hours with him, before it was once again uncertain whether she would ever see him again for a very different reason. A more terrifying and permanent reason.

"Libby, Spike said you need medical treatment," she heard Ed tell her gently from somewhere far away. She felt his hand land on her shoulder as he continued, "let me take you to get some help."

For a second, she was too unfocused to realize what was happening, until the weight of his hand finally registered and she jerked out of his reach. "Don't touch me!" she hissed, stumbling away from him, biting her lip in order to stop a scream of agony and frustration as her broken arm at last made itself known. She glared at Ed, hoping her eyes were staring daggers, but knowing in reality that they were just filled with tears.

He looked at her in surprise.

"Too little, too late," she snarled, knowing she was probably being too harsh, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Without another word, she turned and stalked off on her own in search of the triage place set up for victims. Finally locating it, she shivered as she set foot inside of a building for the first time in… she didn't know how long. A water bottle was thrust into her hand and a chair pushed at her.

She sat down heavily, staring at the ground numbly, feeling that numbness creep over her entire body, taking with it the pain and fear.

What finally broke her out of her stupor was when someone—a paramedic—prodded her broken arm. She was sure they meant to do so gently, but it made her arm sing with renewed pain, pain that had probably been there since it first broke, but which had been dulled by adrenaline and her need to keep Sam alive.

Sam.

As the paramedic asked her questions and applied a splint, she replied automatically, but had no idea what she was saying. Her thoughts were speeding away from her, following that ambulance racing towards a hospital, racing towards a chance.

Finally, she heard her name shouted, which caused her to pick up her head and sluggishly look around, eyes landing on the figures of her parents and brother rushing towards her.

"Oh my god, Libby! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding? Is she bleeding?" her father demanded, the last question going to the paramedic inserting an IV in her good arm.

"It looks like she has a broken arm and is suffering from severe dehydration and mild heatstroke, but given proper treatment she'll be fine."

"Where's all this blood coming from?" Alex demanded.

"It's n—" Libby tried, voice coming out fractured and broken. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It's Sam's. It's not mine."

She saw the momentary relief flash through her parents' eyes, before the concern roared back full force. And that concern made her close her eyes in an effort to hold back the tears. Because she didn't care about her broken arm or the clinical way this person was treating her, all she cared about was Sam, and this paramedic didn't, but now finally here were people who did. Who understood.

"Oh god," her dad breathed.

"We need to go to the hospital," Libby told them.

"Yes, you do," the paramedic agreed, not understanding the reasoning. "You'll need to continue to receive fluids and have your arm properly treated."

"No, Sam—" she tried to explain slowly, but her parents cut her off.

"We know, Libby. You need to get to the hospital to get treated _and_ to get to Sam."

She nodded. Because if she put it like that, it meant Sam would still be there when she got to him.

* * *

.

.

.

.

 **A.N.2.** That wasn't as bad of a cliffhanger, right? Right? Okay, maybe it was...

Also, a few of you have brought up concerns regarding how Sam figured things out (regarding the second shooter and Ben) when he had no resources. For now, all I can say is I hear you and I thank you for raising the concern! For now I ask that you be patient, as I do address this in later chapters and explain it, so I hope that when the explanation comes (and it comes in pieces, not all at once), that is satisfies :)


End file.
